la 


This  book  is  DUE  on  last  date  stamped  below 


19 


09V 


^RN  BRANCH, 

OF  CALIFORNIA, 
'  xv, 

A*  .    .-J<% 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


'  The  kernels  of  nuts  and  the  resins  of  trees, 
The  nectar  distilled  by  the  wild  honey-bees, 
Should  be  thrown  in  together,  to  flavor  my  words 
With  the  zest  of  the  woods  and  the  joy  of  the  birds! " 

— Thompson 


FRIENDS   IN   FEATHERS 


CHARACTER  STUDIES  OF  NATIVE  AMERICAN  BIRDS  WHICH, 

THROUGH  FRIENDLY  ADVANCES,  I  INDUCED  TO  POSE 

FOR  ME,  OR  SUCCEEDED  IN  PHOTOGRAPHING 

BY  GOOD  FORTUNE,  WITH  THE  STORY  OF 

MY  EXPERIENCES  IN  OBTAINING 

THEIR  PICTURES 


By 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1907-1917 
DOUBLEUAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


TO 


BOB  BURDETTE  BLACK 


WHO  "HAD  A  HAND  IN  IT 


THANKS  ARE  DUE  TO  OUTING,  THE  METROPOLITAN, 
AND  THE  LADIES'  HOME  JOURNAL  FOR  THE  PRIVILEGE 

OF    REPRODUCING    PICTURES    COPYRIGHTED     BY    THEM 


BOOK  LIST 


NATURE  BOOKS 

THE   SONG   OF  THE  CARDINAL 
BIRDS  OF  THE  BIBLE 
Music  OF  THE  WILD 
MOTHS  OF  THE  LlMBERLOST 
FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 
MORNING  FACE 


NATURE  STORIES 

FRECKLES 

A  GlRL  OF  THE  LlMBERLOST 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW 

THE  HARVESTER 

LADDIE 

MICHAEL  O'HALLOU AN 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Friends  in  Feathers 1 

II.  The  "Queen"  Rail  —  In  a  Swamp       .        .        .  31 

III.  Gold  Birds  —  In  the  Tree-tops      ....  43 

IV.  The  Barn  Owl  —  In  Deep  Forest.        .        .        .  (>1 
V.  Indigo  Finch  —  In  Shrubs 73 

VI.  The  Wood  Thrush  —  In  the  Valley  of  the  Wood 

Robin 83 

VII.  Goldfinch  —  In  Bushes    ...  .93 

VIII.  The  Killdeer  —  On  the  Ground     ....  103 

IX.  The  Bluebird  —  In  Orchards  and  Bird  Boxes     .  113 

X.  The  Black  Vulture  —  In  the  Limberlost     .        .  123 

XL  Robin  —  In  the  Dooryard 139 

XII.  The  Purple  Martin  — In  the  Air   .       .        .        .  159 

XIII.  The  Belted  Kingfisher  —  In  Embankments        .  1(>7 

XIV.  The  Cat-bird  —  In  Thickets .         .        .        .        .187 
XV.  The  Yellow-billed   Cuckoo  —  In  Small  Thickly 

Leaved  Trees        .        .        .        .         .         .        .197 

XVI.  Wrens  —  In  Bird  Houses 217 

XVII.  The  Blue  Heron  —  In  the  Great  Lake  Regions .  227 

XVIII.  The  Kingbird  —  In  Orchards         ....  23,> 

XIX.  The  Mourning  Dove — In  Deep  Wood  and  Orchard  249 

XX.  The  Cow-bird  —  In  the  Pastures .         .         .         .  2(>1 

XXL  The  Cardinal  Grosbeak—  InSmallTreesandBushes  279 

XXII.  The  Blue  Jay  —  In  the  Orchard    ....  293 

XXIII.  The  Loggerhead  Shrike  —  In  Field  Trees  .         .  309 

XXIV.  The  Humming-bird  —  At  the  Cabin    .        .        .  321 
XXV.  The  Quail —  On  the  Ground 329 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Brooding  Cuckoo       .  ......       Frontispiece 

Male  Cardinal  Grosbeak  Guarding  His  Nest        .        .        .    xxn 
Owl       .  .....  .1 

Dusky  Falcon     .        .  .......         4 

Chicken-hawk     .        .  8 

Black  Vulture     .  .12 

Shitepoke     .        .        .        .  '. ''....        .        .        .16 

Cardinal  Grosbeaks  Courting 20 

Baby  Grosbeak  .  .  ....       22 

Kingfisher    ...  24 

Young  Tanager .25 

Hen's  Nest  Containing  Egg  of  Chicken-hawk  ...  25 
Hen  Brooding  on  Egg  of  Chicken-hawk  ....  26 
Owl  ...  .  ,.  .  .  27 

Brooding  King  Rail ... ..-.". \-       30 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS —Continued 


PAGE 


Rail  Hiding  Egg                                                                          .  31 

Nest  of  King  Rail 36 

Eggs  of  King  Rail 39 

Male  Oriole  of  Wabash  Nest    .  .         .  .42 

Female  Feeding  Young     ....                 ...  43 

Usual  Oriole  Nest 46 

Reverse  of  Usual  Oriole  Nest 50 

Oriole  Hung  by  Accident  while  Building  Nest      .        .        .  51 

Young  Orioles 54 

Young  Orioles  at  Bath,  Toilet,  and  Breakfast      .         .        .  55-57 

Barn  Owl 60 

Owl  Head 61 

Barn  Owl  Leaving  Its  Home 64 

The  Face  a  Perfect  Heart-shape 69 

Typical  Indigo  Finch  Nest 72 

Nest  of  Indigo  Finch 73 

Brooding  Male  Indigo  Finch 76 

Stuffed  Birds 79 

Young  Wood  Thrushes 82 

Nest  of  Wood  Robin 83 

Wood  Thrush  Nest 86 

Young  Bell  Bird  Hiding  Under  Leaf      .         .         .        .        .90 

Male  Goldfinch  Feeding  Young 92 

Female  Goldfinch  Entering  Nest 93 

Female  Goldfinch  Watching  Camera 96 

Male  Goldfinch  at  Excrement-covered  Nest          .        .        .100 

Young  Killdeer 102 

The  Killdeer  Nest 103 

Baby  Killdeer  Just  from  Shell 110 

Male  Bluebird  Carrying  Food 112 

Female  Bluebird  at  Nest 113 

Bluebird  Nest  and  Eggs .116 

xiv 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 


PACK 


Young  Bluebird .  .        .        .        .119 

Black  Vulture's  Nest  with  Egg  and  Young  ....  122 

The  Black  Vulture's  Front  Door 123 

"Little  Chicken"       .                        126 

Young  Vulture  Three-fourths  Grown 130 

Black  Vulture  Full  Grown        .                        ....  134 

Vulture  Taking  Flight       .                                        ...  136 

Father  Robin      .                        .                                ...  138 

Robin  on  Bench  on  Veranda 139 

Robin  Nest  Built  on  Log  of  Limberlost  Cabin     .        .        .  146 

The  Robin  That  Brooded  in  the  Rain    .                                  .  152 

Robin  Ready  for  First  Migration 155 

Father  Martin    .                .                                 ....  158 

A  Martin  Double  House 159 

Martin  Standing  Sentinel 164 

Pair  of  Kingfishers     ....                ....  166 

Kingfishers  Waiting  for  Lunch         .                 ....  167 

The  Head  of  the  Kingfisher  Family 174 

Young  Kingfishers  at  Entrance  to  Nest         ....  178 

Kingfisher  Flats .        .                                183 

Nest  of  Cat-bird                                 186 

Young  Cat-bird .                                  ......  187 

Pair  of  Young  Cat-birds 190 

Young  Cat-birds                          . 194 

Cuckoo's  Nest    .                        196 

Brooding  Cuckoo       .                197 

Typical  Cuckoo  Nest                 .                202 

Young  Cuckoos  .                                204 

Pair  of  Young  Cuckoos 205 

Brooding  Female  Cuckoo 211 

Young  Cuckoos  Ready  for  Flight 214 

Male  Wren  .                                                                              .  216 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  —Continued 

PACK 

Mother  Wren 217 

Nest  and  Eggs  of  Wren 222 

Male  Wren  Singing 224 

Blue  Heron  Hunting  Frogs 220 

A  Frog  in  His  Throat 227 

Indian  River  Plover 232 

Male  Kingbird 234 

Female  Kingbird 235 

Nest  and  Eggs  of  Kingbird 238 

Mother  Kingbird  Feeding  Young 242 

Kingbird  Young 246 

Brooding  Dove 248 

Nest  of  Doves .     249 

Dove  Nest  in  Apple  Tree 252 

Young  Doves  of  Apple  Tree 258 

Nest  of  Warblers  with  Two  Cow-birds 200 

Cows  and  Their  Feathered  Namesakes .         .  201 

Nest  of  Indigo  Finch  Containing  Egg  of  Cow-bird      .         .      200 
Nest  of  Yireo  with  Eggs  of  Builder  and  One  of  Cow-bird     .      209 

Pair  of  Young  Yireos 272 

Inverted  Nest  of  Song  Sparrow  Showing  Walled-in  Egg  of 

Cow-bird 273 

Pair  of  Young  Cow- birds 275 

The  Cardinal  Grosbeak .278 

Young  Cardinals         ...  .279 

Nest  of  Cardinal  Grosbeak       .  .      282 

Male  Cardinal  Singing      .  .      280 

Cardinal .289 

Male  Jay  Singing .292 

Blue  Jay .      293 

Jay  Nest  in  Elm         .....  .294 

Mother  Blue  Jay  and  Young  ...  ...      296 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 


PAGE 


Baby  Blue  Jay  Asking  for  Food      .  .                .     297 

Family  Cares  of  Blue  Jay  300 

Young  Jays  Ready  to  Fly  .                                .304 

Young  Jay  .        . "      .  30G 

Young  Shrike      .  ...                 .      308 

Loggerhead  Shrike     ...  309 

Xest  and  Eggs  of  Shrike  .  .     312 

Young  Shrikes    .         .  .      314 

Young  Shrikes  Posing       .  .317 

Male  Humming-bird .  .     320 

Humming-bird    .        .  .321 

Xest  of  Humming-bird      .  .                .     326 

Quail  in  Hiding  .  .     328 

Xest  of  Quail  Eggs    .                .  .....     329 

Xest  of  Quail  Shells 335 

Quail  337 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


XVlll 


Cried  Falco  Sparverius:     "I  chased  a  mouse  up  this  log. 
Hooted  Scops  Asio:     "  I  chased  it  down  a  little  red  lane. 


"The  bubbling  brook  cloth  leap  when  I  come  by, 

Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 

For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small, 
The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hillside  grows 

Expects  me  there  when  spring  its  bloom  has  given: 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 

And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven." 


CHAPTER  I 

Friends  in  Feathers 

THE  greatest  thing  possible  to  do 
with  a  bird  is  to  win  its  confidence.  In 
a  few  days'  work  around  most  nests 
the  birds  can  be  taught  so  to  trust  nie, 
that  such  studies  can  be  made  as  are 
here  presented. 

I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I  am 
afraid  to  mistreat  a  bird ;  while  luck  is 
with  me  in  the  indulgence  of  this 
fear.  In  all  my  years  of  field  work 
not  one  study  of  a  nest,  or  of  any  bird,  has  been  lost  by  dealing 
fairly  with  my  subjects.  If  a  nest  is  located  where  access  is 
impossible  without  moving  it,  an  exposure  is  not  attempted;  but 
as  surely  as  the  sun  rises  on  another  morning,  another  nest  of  the 
same  species  will  be  found  within  a  few  days,  where  a  reproduc- 
tion of  it  can  be  made. 

Recently,  in  summing  up  the  hardships  incident  to  securing 
one  study  of  a  brooding  swamp-bird,  a  prominent  nature  lover 
and  editor  said  to  me  emphatically:  "That  is  not  a  woman's 
work." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  I  answered.  "In  its  hardships, 
in  wading,  swimming,  climbing,  in  hidden  dangers  suddenly  to  be 
confronted,  in  abrupt  changes  from  heat  to  cold,  or  from  light 
to  dark,  field  photography  is  not  a  woman's  work;  but  in  the 
matter  of  finesse  in  approaching  the  birds,  in  limitless  patience  in 

1 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

awaiting  the  exact  moment  for  the  best  exposure,  in  the  tedious 
and  delicate  processes  of  the  dark  room,  in  the  art  of  winning 
bird  babies  and  parents,  it  is  not  a  man's  work.  No  man  ever 
has  had  the  patience  to  remain  with  a  bird  until  he  secured  a  real 
character  study  of  it.  A  human  mother  is  best  prepared  to  under- 
stand and  deal  with  a  bird  mother." 

This  is  the  basis  of  all  my  field  work :  a  mute  contract  between 
woman  and  bird.  In  spirit  I  say  to  the  birds:  "Trust  me  and  I 
shall  do  by  you  as  I  would  be  done  by.  Your  nest  and  young 
shall  be  touched  as  I  would  wish  some  giant,  surpassing  my  size 
and  strength  as  I  surpass  yours,  to  touch  my  cradle  and  baby. 
I  shall  not  tear  down  your  home  and  break  your  eggs  or  take 
your  naked  little  ones  from  your  nest  before  they  are  ready  to  go, 
leaving  them  to  die  miserably.  I  shall  come  in  colours  to  which 
you  are  accustomed,  move  slowly  and  softly,  not  approaching 
you  too  close  until  your  confidence  in  me  is  established.  I  shall 
be  most  careful  to  feed  your  young  what  you  feed  them;  drive 
away  snakes  and  squirrels,  and  protect  you  in  every  way  possible 
to  me.  Trust  me,  and  go  on  with  your  daily  life.  For  what 
small  disturbance  is  unavoidable  among  you,  forgive  me,  for 
through  it  I  shall  try  to  win  thousands  to  love  and  to  shield  you." 

That  I  frequently  have  been  able  to  teach  a  bird  to  trust 
me  completely,  these  studies  prove;  but  it  is  possible  to  go  even 
further.  After  a  week's  work  in  a  location  abounding  in  every 
bird  native  to  my  state,  the  confidence  of  the  whole  feathered 
population  has  been  won,  so  that  I  could  slip  quietly  in  my  green 
dress  from  nest  to  nest,  with  not  the  amount  of  disturbance  caused 
by  the  flight  of  a  Crow  or  the  drumming  of  a  Woodpecker. 
This  was  proved  to  me  one  day  when  I  was  wanted  at  home. 
A  member  of  my  family  came  gently  and  unostentatiously,  as 
she  thought,  through  the  wood  to  tell  me.  Every  Wren  began 
scolding.  Every  Cat-bird  followed  her  with  imperative  ques- 


WISDOM — DUSKY    FALCON 

"A  Dusky  Falcon  is  beautiful  and  very  intelligent" 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

tions.  Every  Jay  was  on  a  high  perch  sounding  danger  signals. 
With  a  throb  of  joy  came  the  realization  that  I  was  at  home  and 
accepted  by  my  birds;  any  other  was  a  stranger  whose  presence 
was  feared  and  rejected. 

So  upon  this  basis  I  have  gone  among  the  birds,  seeking  not 
only  to  secure  pictures  of  them  by  which  family  and  species 
can  be  told,  but  also  to  take  them  perching  in  familiar  locations 
as  they  naturally  alight  in  different  circumstances;  but  best  and 
above  all  else,  to  make  each  picture  prove  without  text  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  bird.  A  picture  of  a  Dove  that  does  not  make  the 
bird  appear  tender  and  loving,  is  a  false  reproduction.  If  a 
study  of  a  Jay  does  not  prove  the  fact  that  it  is  quarrelsome  and 
obtrusive  it  is  useless,  no  matter  how  fine  the  pose  or  portrayal 
of  markings.  One  might  write  pages  on  the  wisdom  and  cunning 
of  the  Crow,  but  one  study  of  the  bird  that  proved  it  would  ob- 
viate the  necessity  for  most  of  the  text.  A  Dusky  Falcon  is 
beautiful  and  very  intelligent,  but  who  is  going  to  believe  it  if 
you  illustrate  the  statement  with  a  sullen,  sleepy  bird,  which 
serves  only  to  furnish  markings  for  natural-history  identifica- 
tion? If  you  describe  how  bright  and  alert  a  Cardinal  is,  then 
see  to  it  that  you  secure  a  study  of  a  Cardinal  which  emphasizes 
your  statements. 

A  merry  war  has  waged  in  the  past  few  years  over  what  the 
birds  know;  it  is  all  so  futile.  I  do  not  know  how  much  the 
birds  know,  neither  do  you,  neither  does  any  one  else,  for  that 
matter.  There  is  no  possible  way  to  judge  of  the  intelligence  of 
birds,  save  by  our  personal  experience  with  them,  while  each 
student  of  bird  life  will  bring  from  the  woods  exactly  what  he 
went  to  seek,  because  he  will  interpret  the  actions  of  the  birds 
according  to  his  temperament  and  purpose. 

If  a  man  seeking  material  for  a  volume  on  natural  history, 
trying  to  crowd  the  ornithology  of  a  continent  into  the  working 

5 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

lifetime  of  one  person,  goes  with  a  gun,  shooting  specimens  to 
articulate  and  mount  from  which  to  draw  illustrations,  he  will 
no  doubt  testify  that  birds  are  the  wildest,  shyest  things  alive, 
because  that  has  been  his  experience  with  them. 

If  he  goes  with  a  note-book,  a  handful  of  wheat  and  the 
soul  of  a  poet,  he  will  describe  the  birds  as  almost  human,  be- 
cause his  own  great  heart  liumanizes  their  every  action. 

I  go  with  a  camera  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  from  the  fields 
and  forests  characteristic  pictorial  studies  of  birds,  and  this  book 
is  to  tell  and  to  prove  what  my  experiences  have  been  with  them. 
I  slip  among  them  in  their  parental  hour,  obtain  their  likenesses, 
and  tell  the  story  of  how  the  work  was  accomplished.  I  was 
born  in  the  country  and  reared  among  the  birds  in  a  place  where 
they  were  protected  and  fearless.  A  deep  love  for,  and  a  com- 
prehension of  wild  things,  run  through  the  thread  of  my  dis- 
position, peculiarly  equipping  me  to  do  these  things. 

In  one  season,  when  under  ten  years  of  age,  I  located  sixty 
nests,  while  I  dropped  food  into  the  open  beaks  in  every  one  of 
them.  Soon  the  old  birds  became  so  accustomed  to  me,  and  so 
convinced  of  my  good  intentions,  that  they  would  alight  on  my 
head  or  shoulders  in  a  last  hop  to  reach  their  nests  with  the  food 
they  had  brought.  Playing  with  the  birds  was  my  idea  of  amuse- 
ment. Pets  were  my  kind  of  dolls.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that 
I  was  learning  anything  that  would  be  of  use  in  after  years;  now 
comes  the  realization  that  knowledge  acquired  for  myself  in  those 
days  is  drawn  upon  every  time  I  approach  the  home  of  a  bird. 

When  I  decided  that  the  camera  was  the  only  method  by 
which  to  illustrate  my  observations  of  bird  life,  all  that  was  neces- 
sary was  to  assemble  my  outfit,  learn  how  to  use  it,  to  compound 
chemicals,  to  develop  and  fix  plates;  tone  and  wrash  prints.  How 
to  approach  the  birds  I  knew  better  than  anything  else. 

This  work  is  to  tell  of  and  to  picture  my  feathered  friends  in 

6 


AXGER — CHICKEN-HAWK 

I  once  snapped  a  Chicken-hawk  with  a  true  expression  of  anger  on  his  face  " 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

their  homes.  When  birds  are  bound  to  their  nests  and  young 
by  the  brooding  fever,  especially  after  the  eggs  have  quickened 
to  life,  it  is  possible  to  cultivate,  by  the  use  of  unlimited  patience 
and  bird  sense,  the  closest  intimacy  with  them  and  to  secure 
almost  any  pose  or  expression  you  can  imagine. 

In  living  out  their  lives,  birds  experience  anger,  greed,  jeal- 
ousy, fear,  and  love;  also  they  have  their  playtimes.  In  my 
field  experiences  I  once  snapped  a  Chicken-hawk  with  a  true 
expression  of  anger  on  his  face,  because  a  movement  of  mine 
disturbed  him  at  a  feast  set  to  lure  him  within  range  of  my 
camera.  No  miser  ever  presented  a  more  perfect  picture  of 
greed  than  I  frequently  caught  on  the  face  of  a  young  Black 
Vulture  to  which  it  was  my  daily  custom  to  carry  food.  Every 
day  in  field  work  one  can  see  a  male  bird  attack  another  male  and 
make  the  feathers  fly,  if  he  comes  interfering  with  his  nest  and 
mate.  Did  humanity  ever  present  a  specimen  scared  more  than 
this  Shitepoke  when  he  discovered  himself  between  a  high  em- 
bankment and  the  camera,  and  for  a  second  hesitated  about  decid- 
ing in  which  direction  to  fly?  Sometimes  by  holding  food  at  un- 
expected angles  young  birds  can  be  coaxed  into  the  most  as- 
tonishing attitudes  and  expressions. 

I  use  four  cameras  suited  to  every  branch  of  field  work,  and  a 
small  wagon-load  of  long  hose,  ladders,  waders  and  other  field 
paraphernalia. 

Backgrounds  never  should  be  employed,  as  the  use  of  them 
ruins  a  field  study  in  three  ways.  At  one  stroke  they  destroy 
atmosphere,  depth  of  focus  and  natural  environment. 

Nature's  background,  for  any  nest  or  bird,  is  one  of  ever- 
shifting  light  and  shade,  forming  the  atmosphere  without  which 
no  picture  is  a  success.  Nature's  background  is  one  of  deep 
shadow,  made  by  dark  interstices  among  the  leaves,  dense 
thickets  or  the  earth  peeping  through;  and  high  lights  caused 

9 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

by  glossy  leaves,  flowers  and  the  nest  and  eggs,  if  they  are  of  light 
colour. 

Nature  revels  in  strong  contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  sweet  and 
sour,  colour  and  form.  The  whole  value  of  a  natural-history 
picture  lies  in  reproducing  atmosphere,  which  tells  the  story 
of  outdoor  work,  together  with  the  soft  high  lights  and  velvet 
shadows  which  repaint  the  woods  as  we  are  accustomed  to  seeing 
them.  It  is  not  a  question  of  timing;  on  nests  and  surroundings 
all  the  time  wanted  can  be  had;  on  young  and  grown  birds, 
in  motion,  snap  shots  must  be  resorted  to;  but  frequently,  with 
them,  more  time  than  is  required  may  be  given.  It  is  a  question 
of  whether  you  desire  to  reproduce  nature  and  procure  a  natural- 
history  picture,  or  whether  you  are  going  to  insert  a  back- 
ground and  make  a  sort  of  flat  Japanese,  two-tone,  wash  effect, 
suitable  only  for  decoration,  never  to  reproduce  nature. 

Also  in  working  around  nests  when  the  mother  bird  is  brood- 
ing, the  idea  is,  or  should  be,  to  make  your  study  and  go  away 
speedily.  This  is  a  most  excellent  reason  from  the  bird's  side 
of  the  case  as  to  why  a  background  never  should  be  introduced. 
In  the  first  place,  if  you  work  over  a  nest  until  the  eggs  become 
chilled  the  bird  deserts  them;  so  a  brood  is  destroyed.  On  fully 
half  the  nests  you  will  wish  to  reproduce,  a  background  could  not 
be  inserted  without  so  cutting  and  tearing  out  foliage  as  to 
drive  the  bird  to  desert;  to  let  in  light  and  sunshine,  causing  her 
to  suffer  from  heat,  and  to  expose  her  location  until  she  becomes 
prey  to  every  thoughtless  passer.  The  birds  have  a  right  to  be 
left  exactly  as  you  find  them. 

It  is  a  good  idea  when  working  on  nests  of  young  birds,  where 
you  have  hidden  cameras  in  the  hope  of  securing  pictures  of  the 
old,  and  must  wait  some  time  for  them  to  come,  to  remember 
that  nestlings  are  accustomed  to  being  fed  every  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  and  even  oftener.  If  you  keep  the  old  ones  away  long, 

10 


UH 


3   I 

I 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

you  subject  the  young  to  much  suffering  and  even  death ;  so  go 
to  the  woods  prepared^  if  such  case  arises,  to  give  them  a  few  bites 
yourself.  In  no  possible  way  can  it  hurt  a  young  bird  for  you 
to  drop  into  its  maw  a  berry  or  worm  of  the  kind  its  parents  feed 
it,  since  all  the  old  bird  does,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  is  to  pick  a 
worm  or  berry  from  the  bushes  and  feed  it  to  the  young. 

When  you  do  not  know  what  to  give  a  nestling,  an  egg  put 
in  cold  water,  brought  to  a  boil  and  boiled  twenty  minutes, 
then  the  yolk  moistened  with  saliva,  is  always  safe  for  any  bird. 
While  you  are  working  so  hard  for  what  you  want  yourself, 
think  of  the  birds  and  what  they  want,  occasionally. 

The  greatest  brutality  ever  practised  on  brooding  birds 
consists  in  cutting  down,  tearing  out  and  placing  nests  of  help- 
less young  for  your  own  convenience.  Any  picture  so  taken  has 
no  earthly  value,  as  it  does  not  reproduce  a  bird's  location  or 
characteristics.  In  such  a  case  the  rocking  of  the  branches, 
which  is  cooling  to  the  birds,  is  exchanged  for  a  solid  location, 
while  the  leaves  of  severed  limbs  quickly  wither  and  drop,  ex- 
posing both  old  and  young  to  the  heat,  so  that  your  pictures 
represent,  not  the  free  wild  life  of  the  thicket  and  wood,  but 
tormented  creatures  lolling  and  bristling  in  tortures  of  heat, 
working  to  save  their  lives  under  stress  of  forced  and  unnatural 
conditions.  If  you  can  not  reproduce  a  bird's  nest  in  its  location 
and  environment,  your  picture  has  not  a  shred  of  historical  value. 
My  state  imposes  heavy  fines  for  such  work,  and  soon  I  hope 
all  others  will  do  the  same. 

The  eggs  of  many  of  the  birds  are  pointed  and  smaller  at  one 
end  than  the  other,  so  mother  birds  always  place  these  points  to- 
gether in  the  center  of  the  nest.  If  you  wish  to  make  a  study  of 
a  nest  for  artistic  purposes,  bend  the  limb  but  slightly,  so  that 
the  merest  peep  of  the  eggs  shows,  and  take  it  exactly  as  the 
mother  leaves  it.  If  you  desire  it  for  historical  purposes,  repro- 

13 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

duce  it  so  that  students  can  identify  a  similar  nest  from  it.  Bend 
the  limb  lower  so  that  the  lining  will  show,  as  well  as  outside 
material;  then  with  a  little  wooden  paddle  turn  at  least  one  egg 
so  that  the  shape  and  markings  are  distinct.  This  can  not 
possibly  hurt  the  egg  and  when  the  bird  returns  to  brood  she 
will  replace  it  to  suit  herself. 

If  you  find  statements  in  the  writings  of  a  natural-history 
photographer  that  you  can  not  corroborate  in  the  works  of  your 
favourite  ornithologist,  be  reasonable.  \Yho  is  more  likely  to 
know?  The  one  who  tries  to  cover  the  habits  and  dispositions  of 
the  birds  of  a  continent  in  the  lifetime  of  one  person,  or  the  one 
who,  in  the  hope  of  picturing  one  bird,  lies  hidden  by  the  day 
watching  a  nest?  Sometimes  a  series  of  one  bird  covers  many 
days,  sometimes  weeks,  as  the  Kingfisher;  sometimes  months, 
as  the  Vulture;  and  sometimes  years,  as  did  the  Cardinals  of  this 
book.  Does  it  not  stand  to  reason,  that  in  such  intimacy  with  a 
few  species,  much  can  be  learned  of  them  that  is  new? 

All  that  my  best  authority  on  our  native  birds  can  say  of 
the  eggs  of  a  Quail  is  that  they  are  "roundish."  He  hesitates 
over  the  assertion  that  Cardinals  eat  insects,  and  states  for  a 
fact  that  they  brood  but  once  a  season.  No  bird  is  so  completely 
a  seed-  or  insect-eater  that  it  does  not  change  its  diet.  Surely 
the  Canaries  of  your  cages  are  seed -eaters,  yet  every  Canary  lover 
knows  that  if  the  bird's  diet  is  not  varied  with  lettuce,  apple,  egg 
and  a  bit  of  raw  beefsteak  occasionally,  it  will  pull  out  its  feathers 
and  nibble  the  ends  of  them  for  a  taste  of  meat.  Chickens  will  do 
the  same  thing. 

Certainly  Cardinals  eat  insects,  very  freely.  The  one  lure 
effective  above  all  others  in  coaxing  a  Cardinal  before  a  lens  was 
fresh,  bright  red,  scraped  beefsteak.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  this 
bird  went  where  I  wanted  him  when  a  dead  limb  set  with  raw 
meat  was  introduced  into  his  surroundings.  He  would  venture 

14 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

for  that  treat  what  he  would  not  for  his  nestlings;  and  how  his 
sharp  beak  did  shear  into  it ! 

Ornithologists  tell  us  that  the  diet  of  a  Black  Vulture  is 
carrion.  To  reasonable  people  that  should  be  construed  as 
a  general  rule,  but  not  taken  to  mean  that  if  a  Vulture  eats 
a  morsel  of  anything  else  it  can  not  be  a  Vulture.  Once  during  a 
Vulture  series  in  the  Limberlost  a  bird  of  this  family  in  close 
quarters  presented  me  with  his  dinner.  In  his  regurgitations 
there  were  dark  streaks  I  did  not  understand,  so  I  investigated. 
They  were  grass!  Later  I  saw  him  in  a  fence-corner,  snip- 
ping grass  like  a  Goose,  while  the  week  following  his  mate  ate 
a  quantity  of  catnip  with  evident  relish.  Then  some  red  rasp- 
berries were  placed  in  the  mouth  of  their  log  and  both  of  them 
ate  the  fruit. 

In  the  regurgitations  of  a  Kingfisher  there  can  be  found  the 
striped  legs  of  grasshoppers  and  the  seeds  of  several  different 
kinds  of  berries.  All  grain-  and  seed-eaters  snap  up  a  bug  or 
worm  here  and  there.  All  insect-eaters  vary  their  diet  with  bugs 
and  berries,  while  all  meat-  and  carrion-eaters  crave  some  vege- 
table diet. 

Through  repeated  experiences  with  the  same  pairs  I  know 
that  Cardinals  of  my  locality  nest  twice  in  a  season,  and  I  believe 
there  are  cases  where  they  do  three  times,  as  I  have  photographed 
young  in  a  nest  as  late  as  the  twenty-ninth  of  August.  Had  it  not 
been  that  a  pair  were  courting  for  a  second  mating  around  a  nest 
still  containing  their  young,  almost  ready  to  go,  such  a  picture 
as  this  pair  of  courting  Cardinals  never  would  have  been  possible 
to  me.  But  after  one  brooding  they  became  so  accustomed  to 
me  that  they  flitted  close  their  home,  making  love  as  well  as 
feeding  the  nestlings.  Frequently  in  my  work  I  have  followed  a 
pair  of  Cardinals  from  one  nest  to  a  new  location  a  few  rods  away 
where  they  continued  operations  in  a  second  brooding. 

17 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Neither  does  an  authority  who  tells  you  certain  kinds  of 
birds  are  the  same  size,  male  and  female,  mean  anything  except 
that  they  are  the  same  on  an  average.  All  accepted  authorities 
state  that  Black  Vultures  are  the  same  size.  My  male  of  the 
Limberlost  was  a  tough  old  bird,  of  what  age  no  one  could  guess, 
his  eyes  dim,  his  face  wrinkled  and  leathery,  his  feet  incrusted 
with  scale,  while  he  was  almost  as  large  as  his  cousin,  Turkey 
Buzzard.  His  mate  was  a  trim  little  hen  of  the  previous  year, 
much  smaller  and  in  every  way  fresh  compared  with  him,  but 
they  were  mated  and  raising  their  family.  No  ornithologist  can 
do  more  than  to  lay  down  general  rules,  and  then  trust  to  your 
good  sense  to  recognize  the  exceptions. 

There  are  pairs  of  birds  in  which  the  male  is  a  fine  big  speci- 
men, the  female  small  and  insignificant.  There  are  pairs  where 
the  female  is  the  larger  and  finer;  again,  they  are  the  same  size. 
Sometimes  they  conform  in  colour  and  characteristics  to  the  rules 
of  the  books,  often  they  do  not.  Twice  in  my  work  I  have  found 
a  white  English  Sparrow,  also  a  Robin,  wearing  a  large  white 
patch  on  his  coat  and  several  white  Blackbirds.  I  once  came 
very  close  to  snapping  an  old  Robin  of  several  seasons  with  a 
tail  an  inch  long.  It  did  not  appeal  to  me  that  he  was  a  short- 
tailed  species  of  Robin- — there  is  an  explanation  for  all  these 
things.  The  bird  had  been  in  close  quarters  and  relaxed  his 
muscles,  letting  his  tail  go  to  save  his  body.  The  Great  Horned 
Owl  of  our  Cabin  woods  came  so  near  catching  our  male  Cardinal 
this  spring  that  we  found  his  entire  tail  beneath  the  wild  grape- 
vines near  the  spring,  while  for  weeks  we  have  seen  the  Cardinal 
daily  rocking  in  ill-balanced  flight. 

A  large  volume  could  be  filled  with  queer  experiences  among 
birds.  Once  I  found  a  baby  Robin  that  had  been  fed  something 
poisonous,  so  its  throat  was  filled  with  clear,  white  blisters, 
until  its  beak  stood  wide  open,  while  it  was  gasping  for  breath. 

18 


9     £ 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

I  punctured  the  blisters  with  a  needle  and  gave  it  some  oil,  but 
it  died.  Another  time  I  rescued  a  Robin  that  had  hung  five 
inches  below  its  nest  by  one  leg  securely  caught  in  a  noose  of 
horsehair,  until  the  whole  leg  was  swollen,  discoloured,  the  skin  cut 
and  bleeding,  and  the  bird  almost  dead.  Release  was  all  it  needed. 

Again  I  came  across  a  Scarlet  Tanager  a  few  days  before 
leaving  the  nest,  having  both  its  eyes  securely  closed  and  hidden 
by  a  thick  plastering  of  feathers  and  filth.  I  took  it  home, 
soaked  and  washed  it  perfectly  clean  in  warm  milk.  Its  eyes 
were  a  light  pink  and  seemed  sightless.  It  was  placed  in  the 
dark,  fed  carefully,  gradually  brought  to  the  light,  and  in  three 
days  it  could  see  perfectly  and  was  returned  to  its  nest,  sound  as 
the  other  inmates. 

Once  I  found  a  female  Finch  helpless  on  the  ground,  and 
discovered  her  trouble  to  be  an  egg  so  large  she  could  not  possibly 
deposit  it,  so  she  had  left  the  nest  and  was  struggling  in  agony. 
I  broke  the  egg  with  a  hatpin  and  she  soon  flew  away,  seemingly 
all  right.  With  the  help  of  a  man  who  climbed  a  big  tree  and 
secured  the  egg  of  a  Chicken-hawk,  after  the  Hawk  had  been  shot 
by  a  neighbouring  farmer,  we  played  the  mean  trick  on  a  Hen  of 
having  her  brood  on  the  egg  of  her  enemy. 

Another  time  some  boys  came  to  me  with  a  lean  baby 
Shitepoke,  scarce  old  enough  to  fly,  that  had  landed  aimlessly 
in  a  ditch  filled  with  crude  oil,  so  the  poor  bird  was  miserable 
past  description.  Warm  water,  soft  soap  and  the  scrub  brush 
ended  his  troubles:  he  was  returned  to  the  river  clean,  full  fed 
and  happy,  I  hope.  Walking  through  the  woods  one  Sabbath 
morning  this  spring,  after  a  night  of  high  wind  and  driving  rain, 
I  was  attracted  by  the  sharp  alarm  cries  of  a  pair  of  Rose-breasted 
Grosbeaks.  I  followed  them  until  almost  mired  in  the  swamp, 
and  there,  on  a  small  tuft  of  grass,  between  pools  of  water  and 
among  trampling  cattle,  within  two  feet  of  each  other,  I  found  a 

21 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


BABY    GROSBEAK 


male  baby  Grosbeak  and  a  Scarlet  Tanager,  neither  over  five 
days  from  the  shell.  The  Tanager  nest  I  could  not  discover. 
The  Grosbeak  was  in  a  slender  oak  sapling  in  a  thicket  of  grape- 
vines. The  tree  was  too  light  to  bear  my  weight,  while  I  was  not 
prepared  for  field  work.  To  leave  them  meant  for  both  to  be 
drowned  or  trampled  by  the  cattle.  I  carried  them  home  in  my 
hands.  That  night  I  read  that  a  young  Hawk  taken  from  his 
coarse  nest  of  sticks  and  placed  in  a  soft  nest  would  die  miserably, 
so  the  following  morning  I  took  a  ladder  and  went  back  to  the 
swamp.  There  had  been  some  woodland  tragedy  other  than 
the  storm.  The  nest  contained  one  baby,  dead  and  badly  abused, 
so  I  carefully  cut  the  surrounding  vines  and  brought  the  cradle 
home  to  my  birds.  Then  for  ten  days,  in  the  midst  of  my  busiest 
time  on  this  book,  a  stop  every  fifteen  minutes  was  made  to  feed 
those  youngsters  a  mixture  of  boiled  potato  and  egg,  varying 
with  a  little  mashed  fruit  or  bread  and  milk. 

22 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


YOUNG    TANAGKK 


They  grew  wonderfully.  When  they 
were  large  enough  to  fly  well  they  were 
given  the  freedom  of  the  conservatory, 
then  the  door  was  left  open,  and  finally 
they  were  placed  in  an  apple-tree  with 
food  and  water  beneath.  As  I  write  they 
are  six  weeks  old.  Bath  water  is  still 
furnished  them,  but  they  have  not  been 
fed  for  ten  days.  Both  of  them  are  fly- 
ing in  the  orchard,  clean,  bright,  beautiful 
birds.  I  was  most  anxious  to  keep  them, 
the  Grosbeak  especially.  It  would  have 

made  a  precious  pet,  but  the  laws  of  my  state  prohibit  the 
caging  of  a  song-bird,  so  gradually  I  had  to  accustom  them  to 
become  self-supporting,  take  their  pictures,  and  let  them  go. 

AVhile  working  among  birds  in  the  nesting  season  I  liave,  se& 
cured  these  intimate  studies  and  experiences.  At  any  other  timV* 
when  they  are  the  wild,  shy^  free  creatures  of  all  outdoors,  a  precon- 
ceived study  of  them  is  theanerest  chance,  and  a  stray  snap  shot, 
luck,  pure  and  simple.  This,  of  course,  refers  to  songsters;  with 
coast,  tropical  and  polar  birds  that  live  in  flocks  it  is  different. 
But  do  not  let  anyone  imagine  because  he  knows  his  nat- 
ural history  well,  that 
Jie  knows  anything 
about  the  camera. 
That  is  a  separate 
and  distinct  study. 
You  might  as  well  ask 
a  great  surgeon  to  do 
X-ray  work  without 
knowing  how,  as  to  ask 

HEN'S  NEST  CONTAINING   EGG   OF  'CHICKEN-HAWK  «l  >    SClCntlSt       tO       JUOgC 

25 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


"We  played  the  mean  trick  on  a  'Hen  of  having  her  brood  on  the  egg  of  her 

worst  enemy" 

a  natural-history  photographer's  work.  It  is  possible  to 
locate  a  favourite  stump  and  photograph  one  or  a  pair  of 
Kingfishers  in  the  act  of  diving  for  food.  It  is  possible  by  his 
droppings  to  locate  a  Pheasant's  drumming  log,  hide  a  camera 
and  take  him  drumming,  fighting  another  cock,  or  mating.  It 
is  possible  to  locate  a  Heron's  fishing  grounds  and  take  him 
frogging  at  any  time  in  the  season.  These  are  the  things 
which  seldom  happen,  and  which  are  rare  luck,  but  they  are 
perfectly  feasible  to  one  who  has  mastered  the  art  of  setting  and 
hiding  a  camera  and  making  the  most  of  a  poor  plate. 

26 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

I  have  done  some  of  these  things;  but  for  the  most  part  these 
are  simple  little  stories  of  happenings  that  occur  every  day  in  field 
work.  This  book  tells  how  my  birds  were  approached,  to  what 
extent  their  confidence  was  gained,  and  how  much  time  was  re- 
quired ;  it  will  show  the  studies  and  will  explain  what  of  courage, 
strength,  and  patience  they  cost. 

My  closet  contains  hundreds  of  negatives  of  nests,  young 
birds  fully  feathered  on  the  day  of  leaving  the  nest  and  mostly 
in  pairs,  many  series  from  nests  to  growrn  birds,  some  extending 
over  three  months;  and  grown  birds  in  the  act  of  diving,  bathing, 
flying,  singing,  in  anger,  greed,  fear,  taking  a  sun  bath,  and 
courting.  I  have  two  studies  of  birds  when  the  pair  were  forming 
their  partnership,  one  of  a  male  bird  standing  sentinel  beside  his 
brooding  mate,  and  one  of  a  pair  of  Kingfishers  on  a  stump  in 
their  favourite  fishing  shoal. 

In  cases  where  nestlings  are  similar  in  form  and  colouring  to 
their  elders,  I  have  preferred  to  use  the  young  in  pairs,  because 
my  heart  is  peculiarly  tender  over  these  plump,  dainty,  little 
creatures,  so  I  fancy  others  will  feel  4:he  same. 

Every  picture  reproduced  is  of  a  living  bird,  perching  as  it 
alighted,  in  a  characteristic  environment.  I  have  no  gallery 
save  God's  big  workshop  of  field  and  forest,  while  my  birds  are 
bound  by  no  tie  save  the  bond  of  friendship  between  us. 


"Spirit  that  moves  the  sap  in  spring, 
When  lusty  male  birds  fight  and  sing, 
Inform  my  words  and  make  my  lines 
As  sweet  as  flowers,  as  strong  as  vines." 

— Thompson. 


CHAPTER  II 


The  "Queen"  Rail:  Rdllus  Elegans 

IN   A   SWAMP 

THERE  are  particularly  fine 
specimens  among  birds  and  ani- 
mals as  well  as  among  men;  and 
for  this  reason  one  bird  no  more 
represents  the  whole  of  its  spe- 
cies than  one  man  represents  his 
entire  race.  The  greatest  thing 
ever  done  with  a  bird  was  to  win 
its  confidence.  I  have  done 
this  in  the  case  of  many  brood- 
ing birds,  but  never  to  a  degree 
surpassing  this  instance. 

One  evening  one  of  the  Faithful  brought  me  word  that  seven 
miles  east  of  the  Cabin,  in  a  small  swamp  in  one  corner  of  Eli 
McCollum's  corn-field,  "a  big  bird  was  brooding."  A  message 
like  that  means  everything  delightful  to  a  natural-history  pho- 
tographer, so  I  could  scarcely  await  the  coming  morning  to  be 
on  my  way.  That  night  I  dreamed  of  a  large  bird  that  carried 
me  on  its  back  across  a  waving  green  swamp  and  kindly  poised 
in  air  above  its  nest  while  a  study  of  its  eggs  was  made. 

Early  the  following  morning  I  donned  my  swamp  outfit, 
packed  four  cameras  and  started.  The  road  wound  to  the 
northeast  through  new  country;  there  were  hills  and  hollows  to 

31 


HIDING   AX    EGG    FROM    SIGHT 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

which  I  was  not  accustomed,  while  all  May  was  in  each  intoxi- 
cating breath  of  spring  air,  in  the  Lark's  note  o'erhead,  and  in 
every  whitening  corner  of  the  old  snake  fences  outlining  my  way. 

A  passing  farmer  directed  me  to  McCollum's,  and  standing  in 
my  carriage,  I  could  see  a  corn-field  with  a  small  swamp  in  one 
corner.  I  turned  from  the  broad  highway  to  drive  up  a  nar- 
row country  road  such  as  one  reads  of,  but  seldom  finds.  Crisp, 
thick  grass  grew  to  the  wrheeltracks,  big  oaks  and  maples  locked 
branches  overhead,  while  every  fence-corner  was  a  blanket  of 
bloom  above  and  a  carpet  of  bloom  below. 

The  corn-field,  mellow  with  alternate  freezing  and  thawing, 
outlined  in  symmetrical  rows  by  the  brown  stubble  of  last  year's 
crop,  green  splotched  with  rank  upspringing  mullein,  thistle-, 
dog-fennel  and  smart  weed,  drowsed  in  the  warm  sunshine.  It 
was  enclosed  by  a  snake  fence,  so  old  that  it  had  become  a  thing 
of  great  beauty  and  most  interesting.  There  must  have  been  a 
time  when  that  fence  shone  with  the  straw  colours  of  newly- 
split  timber  giving  off  sappy  odours.  Now,  it  was  blacker  than  the 
bark  of  big  trees  that  had  grown  from  the  acorns  and  beech-nuts 
the  squirrels  had  dropped  in  its  corners ;  while  it  was  hoary  with  the 
lint  that  wasps  and  Orioles  love  to  gather  in  nest-building,  and 
gay  with  every  endless  shade  of  gray  and  green  that  ever  harmo- 
nized on  the  crimpled  face  of  a  lichen.  There  were  places  where 
the  old  fence  stoutly  bore  up  its  load  of  bitter-sweet  and  wood- 
bine,  wild  grape  and  blackberry;  again  it  slid  down  dejectedly,  as 
if  the  years  were  heavy  upon  it,  while  the  wood,  soggy  with 
earth's  dampness,  grew  tiny  ferns,  mosses  and  brilliant  fungi. 

I  almost  forgot  the  bird  of  which  I  had  dreamed,  in  my  delight 
over  the  fence.  Every  rail  of  it  was  a  tenement.  Some  housed 
woodworms,  ants  and  beetles;  hollow  ends  and  knot-holes 
sheltered  brooding  Sparrows  and  Pewees;  small  mud-plastered 
spots  marked  the  walled-in  families  of  boring  wasps.  Garter 

32 


THE  "QUEEN"  KAIL 

snakes,  moles  and  field  mice  homed  in  and  under  the  rotting 
bottom  rails,  bright  green  lizards  liked  to  laze  on  the  sunny  sides 
of  the  middle  ones,  while  sleek  ground  squirrels,  with  black- 
striped  backs,  ran  on  the  top. 

In  the  corners  on  either  side  grew  rank  orchard  grass,  thickly 
sprinkled  with  sweet-Williams,  while  laughing-faced  blue-eyed 
Marys  coquetted  with  them  through  the  cracks.  Graceful 
maiden-hair  ferns  tossed  their  tresses  from  wiry  steins.  Bleached 
mandrake  umbrellas,  that  would  later  unfurl  shades  of  green  to 
shelter  cups  of  wax  and  gold,  pushed  stoutly  through  the  sod. 
Half  the  corners  were  filled  with  the  whiteness  of  wild  plum  and 
service-berry;  the  others  were  budding  the  coming  snow  of  alder 
and  the  blush  of  wild  rose.  Papaw  sheaths  were  bursting  with  the 
pressure  of  coming  leaf  and  wine-coloured  bloom,  and  rich  red  and 
yellow  buckeye  buds  were  pursy  with  swelling  flower  and  foliage. 

"  Mu-m-m-m-m-m-m ! "  came  the  low  rumble  of  a  swamp  bird. 
"  Gyck !  Gyck ! "  came  the  answer;  then  the  fence  was  forgotten. 
The  camera  I  selected  to  use  weighed  forty  pounds,  the  field 
was  mellow  and  the  swamp  at  its  farthest  corner.  Close  study 
was  required  to  locate  the  nest,  but  at  last,  by  only  a  few  grass 
blades  persistently  arched  against  the  wind,  I  found  it.  Then 
putting  on  my  waders  and  carefully  probing  with  a  long  tripod 
for  each  step,  I  entered  the  swamp  and  started  toward  the  nest. 

The  birds  fear  noise  far  more  than  objects,  so  I  made  a  long 
wait  between  steps  and  shifted  my  feet  sidewise  so  as  not  to  sink 
so  deep  in  the  muck  that  I  could  not  get  out.  It  was  difficult 
work  to  take  a  step,  while  I  sank  deeper  and  deeper  on  nearing 
the  nest.  Coming  close  I  made  longer  pauses  between  steps. 
When  I  was  almost  to  the  nest,  from  the  heart  of  the  swamp 
broke  a  sharp  "Gyck!  Gyck!" — the  same  cry  that  I  had  heard 
on  the  road;  then  I  knew  that  it  came  from  the  King  Rail  and 
that  he  was  anxious  about  his  Queen. 

33 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

She  had  chosen  her  location  on  a  small  hummock,  far  out  in  a 
deep  pool;  so  few  inches  above  the  water  that  while  brooding 
she  could  take  a  drink  without  rising.  The  erection  of  her 
palace  evidently  had  been  simplicity  itself.  She  had  snipped  this 
year's  green  grass  from  her  location,  sat  down  on  the  old  dead, 
dry  blades,  and  repeatedly  turned  around.  Then  she  had 
gathered  the  ends  she  had  broken  off,  dropped  them  under  her 
and  worked  them  down  with  her  feet.  This  gave  her  a  large, 
flat,  bowl-shaped  nest  of  beautiful  shades  of  tan,  yellow  and 
brown  dried  grass.  The  finishing  touch  was  to  catch  the  long 
rank-growing  blades  above  her  head,  draw  them  together  and 
weave  them  into  an  arch  of  living  green. 

Through  its  sides  the  brooding  Rail  could  be  seen.  She  was  a 
large,  splendid  specimen  of  her  species,  her  plumage  a  bright 
beautiful  brown,  with  little  V-shaped  markings  of  white  over  her 
back  and  touches  of  black  on  the  wings,  in  the  shape  of  black 
feathers  twice  banded  with  white.  The  top  of  her  head  was  a 
smooth  even  brown  having  ash-coloured  streaks  above  the  eyes. 
Her  throat  was  paler  ash.  Later  I  saw  that  her  legs  were  slender, 
smooth,  a  light  greenish  yellow,  and  her  feet  graceful,  with  slim  toes 
ending  in  sharp  black  nails.  Her  beak  was  elegant  in  its  sym- 
metrical curve,  with  hints  of  red  and  yellow  at  the  base,  daintily 
cut  nostrils  and  rich  ivory  tip.  But  loveliest  of  all  were  her  big, 
wise,  wonderful  eyes,  as  she  sat  motionless,  steadily  regarding  me. 
As  I  returned  her  fearless  gaze  the  thought  came  to  me,  that 
if  the  King  Rail  earned  his  royalty  by  personally  conducting 
the  migratory  voyages  of  the  Quail,  as  he  was  accredited  with 
having  done  at  the  time  of  his  coronation  in  early  France,  his 
mate  undoubtedly  was  worthy  of  equal  honours;  for  she  was 
graceful  and  lovely,  having  a  heart  that  was  unafraid,  as  royal 
hearts  ever  should  be.  Straightway  I  named  her  the  "Queen," 
and  our  friendship  began. 

34 


THE  "QUEEN"  RAIL 

After  remaining  quietly  around  her  until  convinced  that  she 
was  not  frightened,  I  worked  my  way  to  the  bank  and  carried 
my  camera  into  the  swamp,  setting  it  up  fifteen  feet  from  the 
nest,  by  the  use  of  a  long  water  tripod,  then  covering  it  with 
rushes.  With  the  bulb  of  a  long  hose  in  one  hand  I  slowly  waded 
toward  the  nest,  stooping  to  reach  under  water  to  cut  the 
intervening  grasses  from  the  foreground  of  my  picture.  On  near- 
ing  the  nest  I  worked  slowly,  studying  every  movement  to 
make  it  noiseless  and  simple.  It  was  not  so  easy,  for  the  water 
was  very  cold,  the  muck  deep  and  sticky,  while  constant  watch- 
ing was  required  to  avoid  sinking  above  my  waders  in  a  net- work 
of  muskrat  burrows.  In  my  absorption  I  forgot  how  nearly  I 
was  approaching  the  nest,  until  suddenly  there  came  between  the 
grasses  a  flash  of  ivory,  then  a  red  stain  spread  on  my  bared  arm. 

I  almost  cried  aloud  for  joy.  Every  second  I  had  feared 
my  "Queen"  would  flatten  her  feathers  and  dart  into  a  well- 
defined  runway,  that  could  be  detected  leading  from  one  -side 
of  the  nest  into  the  swamp.  But  this  was  pure  glory.  She  was 
a  fighter.  She  would  remain.  Talk  about  excitement!  My 
hair  pricked  my  head;  my  heart  muffled  up  in  my  throat  as  I 
stooped  low,  slowly  and  carefully  parting  and  bending  back  the 
grasses  of  the  nest,  while  the  "Queen"  struck  me  without 
mercy.  My  hands  and  arms  were  seeping  blood  in  twenty-three 
places  when  the  nest  was  opened  to  my  satisfaction;  but  the 
"Queen  "  had  not  showed  the  slightest  inclination  to  leave  it  when 
J  finished  the  exposure  and  closed  it  again. 

Every  day  for  seven  days  I  slipped  into  the  swamp,  set  up 
my  camera,  closer  and  closer  each  time,  and  opened  that  nest. 
Each  day  the  "Queen"  paid  less  and  less  heed  to  me.  On  the 
day  that  I  travelled  those  fourteen  miles  for  the  seventh  time, 
my  camera  was  set  with  no  covering  at  all,  exactly  where  it  was 
wanted,  the  grasses  parted  widely,  without  the  slightest  protest 

37 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

from  the  bird;  she  did  not  move  or  open  her  beak,  while  she 
neither  looked  nor  felt  afraid  or  annoyed.  Then  with  a  slow 
plate  and  time  exposure,  the  frontispiece  of  this  chapter  was 
made;  a  study  of  a  bird  that  any  hunter  will  tell  you  is  one  of 
our  wildest,  shyest  creatures. 

After  changing  the  plate,  I  desired  a  reproduction  of  the  nest 
and  eggs  to  complete  the  series.  As  the  "Queen  "  would  not  leave, 
I  gently  picked  her  up,  being  extremely  careful  to  lift  her  straight 
above  the  nest,  so  as  not  to  break  an  egg.  Holding  her  on  my 
breast,  with  her  head  slipped  inside  my  blouse,  that  she  might 
not  be  alarmed  by  seeing  me  touch  her  eggs,  I  made  an  exposure 
on  her  nest. 

Her  eggs  were  twelve  in  number,  four  and  one-half  inches 
around  the  long  way  and  three  and  three-quarters  at  the  larger 
end,  by  the  best  measurements  I  could  secure  and  hold  the 
"Queen"  with  one  hand.  They  were  of  a  pale  ash-colour, 
sparsely  sprinkled  with  splotches  of  reddish  brown  and  faint 
lavender  markings  that  seemed  as  if  seen  through  a  thin,  oily  veil. 
In  the  golden  bowl  with  the  green  arch  above  they  were  exquisite. 

Then  I  set  the  "Queen"  on  the  edge  of  her  nest  and  kissed 
the  top  of  her  shining  head  in  parting,  for  I  knew  what  was 
on  those  plates.  The  grasses  of  her  arch  were  closed  as  nearly 
as  she  had  them  as  was  possible  for  me  to  arrange  them.  Every- 
thing was  replaced  as  I  found  it;  then  I  hurried  away,  un- 
speakably grateful  to  the  bird  that  would  allow  such  fellowship  on 
the  part  of  a  mortal. 

Our  unfamiliarity  with  the  King  Rail  arises,  not  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  so  uncommon — the  swamps  are  filled  with  them ;  but  be- 
cause they  are  extremely  wild  and  almost  never  take  wing,  trusting 
to  escape  pursuit  by  flattening  the  feathers  against  the  slender 
bodies  and  darting  between  the  reeds  and  rushes,  where  dogs  can  not 
penetrate  or  hunters  shoot;  hence  the  expression,  "  slim  as  a  rail." 

38 


THE  "QUEEN"  RAIL 

Possibly  I  have  made  rarer  studies  of  rarer  birds,  but  into 
many  of  them  there  enters  an  element  of  pure  luck,  over  which 
no  control  could  be  exercised.  They  were  only  obtained  because 
I  happened  to  be  on  the  spot  at  the  right  moment,  and  so  ac- 
quainted with  the  birds  that  I  was  able  to  snap,  not  for  what 
they  were  doing,  but  for  what  experience  had  taught  me  they 
would  do  next.  This  picture  was  deliberate.  I  worked  and 
planned  for  it.  The  bird  was  superb,  while  I  did  not  spare  my- 
self in  my  efforts  to  gain  her  confidence.  I  drove  those  ninety- 
eight  miles,  and  dragged  my  muck-laden  feet  by  the  hour  through 
the  chilly  swamp-water,  in  the  hope  that  I  should  get  something 
nearly  as  good.  I  confess  I  never  expected  to  do  quite  so  well. 
This  study  of  the  "Queen"  Rail  to  me  represents  the  acme  of 
what  I  have  done  with  birds,  in  the  way  of  winning  their  confi- 
dence, and  becoming  friends. 


'His  palace  is  in  the  brake 
Where  the  rushes  shine  and  shake; 
His  music  is  the  murmur  of  the  stream 
And  that  leaf  rustle  where  lilies  dream.' 
— Thompson. 


40 


MALE  ORIOLE  OF  WABASH  NEST 


CHAPTER  III 

'      rn   .      ''    '     ,     -   '    .:•-'-.    7    •      "          •     -r  ""«,.'     * 

Gold  Birds:     Icterus  Galbula 

IN    THE    TREE-TOPS 

MY  FRIENDSHIP  with 
Orioles  became  intimate 
when  I  went  one  morning 
to  carry  a  bit  of  sewing  to 
a  neighbour  and  found 
two  starving,  half-naked 
little  birds,  gasping  for 
breath,  in  full  sunlight,  on 
the  board  floor  of  a  wire 
cage.  To  test  his  aim, 
with  his  rifle,  the  woman's 
husband- had  severed  the 
small  twigs,  high  in  the 
air,  from  which  the  nest 
depended;  both  of  them 
seemed  very  proud  of  the 
performance.  In  falling 
two  of  the  birds  were 
killed;  the  man  carried 
home  the  nest  to  show 
what  a  "pretty  shot,"  he 
had  made,  so  as  the  wo- 
man had  the  old  canary  cage,  she  thought  she  might  raise  the  two 

43 


FEMALE  FEEI 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

living  birds  in  the  nest  for  pets.  She  knew  she  had  failed  with 
them,  and  soon  they  would  be  dead,  for  she  greeted  with  joy 
my  proposition  to  give  her  for  the  birds  and  cage  what  I 
had  intended  paying  for  the  sewing,  which  I  carried  back  to  do 
myself. 

First  I  put  an  egg  and  a  potato  of  the  same  size  to  boil,  while 
I  cleaned  the  filth  from  the  birds  and  fashioned  for  them  a  nest  as 
nearly  as  possible  like  I  thought  the  bottom  of  their  woven  purse 
would  be.  I  used  an  old  mitten,  putting  cotton  in  the  bottom 
to  absorb  the  excrement  which  I  could  not  remove  as  the  nests 
prove  the  parent  Orioles  do.  Then  I  mashed  the  yolk  of  the  egg, 
added  a  small  amount  of  potato,  moistened  it  with  saliva,  pried 
open  the  mouths  of  the  half-dead  birds  and  administered  a 
small  bite  to  each.  They  were  not  over  a  week  old,  but  at  the 
third  feeding  they  opened  their  bills  widely  and  cried  the  plaintive 
notes  of  baby  Orioles  when  full  fed  and  sleepy.  We  got  along 
very  well.  The  birds  grew  and  became  from  the  first  the  most 
lovable  little  feathered  friends  I  ever  had. 

When  they  graduated  from  the  nest,  I  put  them  in  the  cage, 
where  they  soon  learned  to  feed  themselves  and  use  the  perches. 
They  had  known  nothing  but  the  cage,  they  never  made  the 
slightest  objections  to  it,  and  were  so  engaging  and  attractive  that 
soon  I  invested  in  a  big  brass  cage,  the  largest  size  made  for 
Redbirds,  which  at  that  time  were  common  captives.  A  friend 
begged  so  hard  for  one  of  them  I  gave  her  the  old  cage  and  the 
one  I  knew  was  a  female;  the  male  all  of  us  petted  constantly. 
The  cage  door  stood  open,  so  he  had  the  freedom  of  the  house, 
while  if  I  \vent  out  to  the  trees  to  read  or  to  sew,  his  cage,  with 
the  door  closed,  was  carried  with  me. 

I  talked  to  him  continually,  spending  more  time  with  him 
than  any  bird  I  ever  had  in  my  own  home.  His  coat  began  tak- 
ing on  its  golden  colour  at  a  very  early  age;  the  black  markings 

44 


USUAL   OKIOLE   NEST 


GOLD  BIRDS 

soon  showed,  while  his  beady  black  eyes  were  always  watching 
me.  As  I  sat  reading  or  sewing  in  the  house  he  hopped  all  over 
me,  often  sleeping  on  my  head  or  shoulder.  He  entered  and  left 
his  cage  at  will.  He  would  play  for  an  hour  weaving  bits  of  cot- 
ton cord  or  bright  wool  back  and  forth  between  the  wires  of  the 
cage.  He  would  hunt  the  sand  of  the  cage  floor  for  large  pebbles 
which  he  would  carry  to  the  top  perch,  and  leaning,  drop  into  his 
bath  to  make  the  water  splash.  If  I  laughed  and  talked  to  him, 
he  would  do  this  repeatedly;  if  I  said  nothing  and  pretended  not 
to  notice,  he  would  wait  awhile,  then  try  again.  Once  on  entering 
the  house  I  left  the  screen  door  open  so  long  he  darted  from  it 
sailing  high  in  the  sky  with  a  burst  of  wild  notes;  so  I  thought  him 
gone  forever  and  stood  helplessly  gazing  up  at  him ;  but  presently 
he  dropped  lower  and  lower,  then  settled  on  my  head  and  quietly 
I  walked  inside  carrying  him  back  to  captivity.  But  the  glad 
exultation  of  those  notes  on  free  wing  kept  coming  back  to  me. 
They  were  not  notes  he  sang  in  the  house.  That  day  I  began 
definitely  training  him  for  freedom,  lessening  the  food  I  prepared, 
instead  bringing  in  branches  with  bugs,  worms  and  lice,  which  J 
taught  him  to  hunt.  When  he  could  fly  strongly,  and  live  from 
food  he  found  himself,  in  the  spring  of  his  second  year  I  let  him 
go,  but  missed  him  inexpressibly. 

After  securing  my  cameras  and  beginning  professional  field 
work  among  the  birds,  my  first  chance  at  an  Oriole  nest  came 
while  visiting  my  sister  at  Wabash.  The  nest  was  high  in  a 
maple  in  front  of  her  residence,  while  not  far  from  it  stood  a 
telegraph  pole  of  size  and  height  used  to  carry  city  wiring  in  the 
days  before  buried  lines  were  compulsory.  I  hired  her  little  son 
to  climb  the  maple  and  tie  back  the  intervening  limbs,  then  I 
borrowed  two  ladders  from  painters  working  on  an  adjoining 
house,  and  lashed  them  together  while  the  men  set  and  fastened 
them  against  the  telegraph  pole  for  me.  Carrying  a  hammer  and 

47 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

big  spikes  I  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  top,  and  opposite  the  nest 
fastened  up  and  focussed  my  camera.  As  I  had  to  stand  high  in 
air,  on  the  ladder  placed  perpendicularly,  and  reach  around  the 
pole  to  operate  the  camera,  it  was  rather  awkward  work.  The 
birds  would  not  come  to  the  nest  with  me  on  the  ladder,  so  I 
attached  a  long  hose,  then  sat  under  a  tree  in  the  lot  to  make  the 
exposures,  being  compelled  to  climb  the  ladders  at  each,  to  reset 
the  shutter  and  change  the  plate.  In  the  meantime,  afraid  to 
wratch  me,  my  sister  sat  in  a  back  room  and  prayed  that  I 
would  not  break  my  neck. 

As  the  birds  gain  confidence  in  man,  it  appeals  to  me  that 
Orioles  are  building  a  trifle  lower.  In  more  recent  years,  I  have 
had  opportunity  to  work  around  two  nests  from  the  top  of  a 
twelve-foot  step  ladder,  by  building  up  a  few  feet  with  boxes,  so 
that  the  nests  must  have  been  close  fifteen  feet  from  earth. 
One  nest  was  beautiful,  built  in  the  top  branching  of  a  small  plum 
tree,  on  the  A.  P.  Hardison  farm,  where  I  had  permission  to  work 
among  the  birds  as  I  chose;  so  I  was  free  to  lay  down  fences  and 
drive  into  the  orchard,  there  to  spend  days  making  friends  with 
the  birds.  Mr.  Hardison  told  me  of  the  nest,  and  at  my  request 
set  up  a  ladder  where  he  thought  I  would  want  it,  so  that  the  birds 
had  time  to  become  accustomed  to  it  before  I  added  the  box. 
I  gave  them  a  day  with  it,  before  beginning  with  the  camera 
which  disturbed  them  so  little  that  twenty  minutes  after  it  was 
set  up  the  female  was  coming  before  it  for  her  regular  feeding, 
then  in  a  short  time  the  male,  who  worked  as  assiduously  as  the 
mother  bird. 

The  nest  was  the  usual  construction  of  plant  fibre  and  lint 
having  one  piece  of  cotton  cord  hanging  in  a  free  loop  across  the 
front,  but  the  end  was  woven  in  the  top  then  carried  many  times 
around  the  largest  limb,  as  was  a  white  carpet  rag,  also.  The 
other  end  had  several  pieces  of  cord,  a  long  strip  of  cotton  cloth 

48 


Reverse  of  same  nest,  showing  fastening  that  holds  it  firmly;  high  window  abandoned'  and 
lower  one  completed  and  used  by  the  brooding  bird 


GOLD  BIRDS 


made  fast  to  the  twig 
and  carried  down 
around  the  top  of  the 
nest,  the  plant  fibre 
being  woven  over  it, 
then  the  end  brought 
out  and  fastened  to 
the  tree.  Only  a 
cyclone  that  wrecked 
the  tree  could  have 
destroyed  that  nest; 
I  never  have  seen  one 
more  securely  built; 
but  all  Oriole  archi- 
tecture must  be  very 
strong,  as  in  a  lifetime 
of  field  work  I  never 
have  seen  a  nest 
destroyed  through 
faulty  work  on  the 
part  of  the  birds. 

That  there  are 
tragedies  among  the 
birds,  especially  the 
Orioles,  is  proved 
by  finding  the  body 
of  a  male  bird 
hanging  from  a  loop 
of  cotton  cord,  in  a 
cotton  wood,  under  a 
nest  that  had  been 
abandoned,  evidently 


MALE   ORIOLE    THAT    HANGED    HIMSELF    WHILE 
NEST   BUILDING 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

on  account  of  the  accident.  One  of  the  pair  had  dropped  from 
above  a  piece  of  cord  and  heavy  sewing  cotton,  intertwined.  It 
had  lodged  on  the  point  of  a  stiff  dead  twig,  then  been  pushed 
back  by  the  wind  until  it  caught  on  tiny  rough  projections  where 
a  leaf  had  fallen.  In  wrorking  to  free  it,  to  use  as  a  lashing  to 
fasten  his  nest,  the  male  had  slipped  a  loop  over  his  head,  so  when 
he  pulled,  it  had  proved  to  be  a  veritable  slip  noose,  which  drew 
tighter  with  his  struggles,  until  he  was  choked.  This  is  also  proof 
that  the  male  assists  in  nest  building. 

The  young  were  hatched  before  I  heard  about  the  nest,  but 
if  I  had  known  in  time,  I  would  not  have  tried  to  picture  the  eggs, 
as  it  cannot  be  done  in  so  deep  a  nest  without  removing  them, 
which  is  too  dangerous.  Once  I  took  a  peep  into  one  of  these  low 
nests,  which  was  a  great  treat.  The  eggs  appear  as  if  they  had 
been  imprinted  with  the  lines  of  the  nest  in  which  they  lie,  being 
lined,  traced  and  dabbled  like  brush  work,  but  the  colour  is  deli- 
cate purple  and  brown.  They  are  even  more  beautiful  than  the 
egg  of  the  Kingbird. 

The  three  sturdy  young  of  this  nest  I  began  handling  that 
first  day,  so  by  the  time  they  were  ready  to  fly  they  would  sit 
for  their  pictures  and  return  to  the  nest  with  never  a  protest. 
They  took  wing  the  day  after  this  picture  of  them  was  taken, 
then  I  cut  down  their  cradle  for  a  trophy. 

I  had  one  later  experience  raising  a  young  Oriole,  too  heavily 
bedraggled  with  mud  and  crude  oil  to  move,  that  I  found  in  a 
swamp.  He  was  scarcely  old  enough  to  fly,  so  I  fed  him  for  a 
week  until  he  could  fend  for  himself  before  I  gave  him  freedom. 
He  loved  water,  splashing  vigorously  each  morning,  then  making 
his  toilet,  then  taking  his  breakfast  from  the  point  of  a  toothpick. 
I  could  have  made  exactly  as  endearing  a  pet  of  him  as  of  my 
first  Oriole,  but  I  do  not  now  believe  in  caged  birds;  while  I  had  not 
the  time  to  spare,  so  when  he  was  self-supporting  I  released  him. 

52 


GOLD  BIRDS 


One  Oriole 
nest  of  my  experi- 
ence differed  from 
all  others  I  ever 
have  seen  in  two 
particulars,  each 
of  which  indi- 
cated that  its 
builders  were  pro- 
gressive and  had 
ideas.  The  nest 
was  in  a  cotton- 
wood,  pendent  as 

usual,  but  not  swinging  free,  for  half-way  down  on  one  side  it  was 
firmly  lashed  to  a  stiff  twig,  the  material  so  bound  around  and 
over  it  that  the  nest  could  not  sway  with  the  wind  or  bend  under 
the  weight  of  a  Screech  Owl  attacking  it,  thus  giving  the  brooding 
mother  a  far  better  chance  to  escape. 

This  nest  also  proved,  as  the  front  and  reverse  of  it  clearly 

show,  that  it  was 
a  unique  struc- 
ture, most  re- 
markable. The 
back  was  similar 
to  all  other  nests, 
with  its  wide 
mouth  for  en- 
trance and  feed- 
ing. The  front 
had  not  only  the 
fastening  de- 
scribed, but  two 
55 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

attempts  at  a  window.  The  first  on  the  right,  rudimentary, 
had  proved  to  be  so  high  that  it  could  not  be  used,  so  it  had 
been  abandoned.  The  next  attempt  was  so  low  that  the 
brooding  bird  could  sit  on  her  eggs,  put  her  head  from  the 
window  and  watch  the  neighbours.  It  was  clearly  defined, 
firmly  outlined  and  deliberately  woven  as  a  part  of  the  nest. 
It  was  also  large  enough  that  in  case  of  attack  from  Owls  or 
squirrels  at  the  top,  the  mother  bird  could  slip  from  the 
window.  I  watched  her  brooding  and  feeding.  After  figur- 
ing out  what  she  had  done,  I  had  a  boy  climb  for  the  aban- 
doned nest,  which  proves  exactly  what  I  write  of  it.  It  also 
shows  that  these  birds  were  in  advance  of  their  time  and 
knew  what  they  were  doing.  By  no  possibility  could  they 
have  constructed  this  nest  as  it  is  without  knowing  why 
they  did  it.  They  fashioned  this  window  to  enable  the 
mother  to  have  light  and  air,  also  to  watch  her  bird  neighbours 
while  she  brooded.  I,  and  many  other  people,  saw  her  so  use  it 
during  that  time. 

In  much  personal  experience  with  these  birds  I  know  them 
to  have  fine  dispositions,  almost  never  quarrelling  or  meddling  in 
the  affairs  of  other  birds.  They  are  invaluable  insecticides, 
searching  under  and  upper  sides  of  leaves  as  well  as  bark  for  their 
chosen  food;  great  blessings  to  any  orchard.  They  are  a  treat  in 
appearance,  our  bird  of  purest  gold,  and  their  notes  sown  co- 
piously on  air  are  as  golden  as  their  backs.  Their  music  is  almost 
irritating,  in  that  they  start  a  lovely  theme,  see  a  bug  on  a  blossom 
and  stop  to  catch  it,  forgetting  to  complete  the  song,  although  at 
times  they  do  finish  after  a  long  interval.  Sometimes  one  hears 
the  end,  but  not  the  beginning  of  the  strain.  Many  musicians 
have  put  these  songs  on  record  as  they  appeal  to  their  sense  of 
harmony  and  composition,  one  has  even  caught  that  Oriole  theme 
which  occurs  in  the  Spinning  Song  in  "Martha" : 

56 


GOLD  BIRDS 

"I  can  wash,  sir,  I  can  spin,  sir, 
I  can  sew,  and  mend,  and  babies  tend." 

But  there  is  no  one  to  tell  us  whether  the  bird  copied  the  master, 
or  the  reverse.  Probably  the  strain  is  original  with  both,  since 
the  Oriole  of  the  continent,  which  Von  Flowtow  probably  would 
have  heard,  is  in  a  family  distinct  from  Icteridse  to  which  our 
Orioles  belong. 


BREAKFAST 


57 


Grey  woven  hammock,  a  swaying  berth, 
Tossed  by  the  winds  the  whole  night  long, 

Nothing  more  precious  than  you  on  earth, 
For  you  are  the  cradle  of  song. 

Bright  flying  wings,  fresh  sun-bathed  each  hour, 
Clear  bubbling  song,  from  golden  throat, 

Oh  the  wonder,  that  you  have  power, 

To  make  June  more  glad  with  your  gay  note! 


58 


BARN   OWL 


HEAD    OF   BARN 
OWL 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Barn  Owl:  Strix  Pratincola 

IN    DEEP   FOREST 

DID  you  ever  traverse  the  Michigan  Inland 
Route,  before  fire  annihilated  and  lumbermen 
despoiled  its  great  beauty?  There  was  charm 
in  every  foot  of  that  dark,  marshy  old  Northern 
forest,  in  the  narrow  river  flowing  swiftly  over  its 
bed  of  golden  sand,  in  the  rushy,  moss-covered 
swamps  which  bordered  it,  and  in  the  clear,  cool 
air  perfumed  with  dank  odours  and  the  resin 
of  pines. 

Forests  of  spruce,  cedar  and  birch  locked  branches  across 
the  river,  among  them  monster  trees  had  died  and  lodged  at  every 
conceivable  angle  in  falling;  the  swamp  on  either  hand  was  scarlet 
witli  foxfire,  while  curious  ferns,  mosses,  orchids  and  lilies  lined  each 
bank.  All  its  length  were  places  where  deer  had  been  to  browse 
and  drink,  clumsy  bears  to  eat  berries,  fish  in  shallow  pools  and 
play  havoc  with  the  housekeeping  of  muskrat  and  beaver.  Fancy 
peopled  these  spots  with  dusky-painted  faces,  while  one  could 
almost  hear  the  water-dripping  paddle-blades  and  the  twang  of 
the  bow-string. 

We  were  unusually  early  that  year,  and  extremely  fortunate 
in  securing  a  guide  who  was  an  ardent  sportsman  and  a  lover  of 
all  wild  life.  Of  course  I  was  more  interested  than  he  in  securing 
subjects  for  my  camera,  but  a  casual  observer  scarcely  would 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

have  guessed  it.  My  window  on  the  second  floor  of  our  stopping- 
place  overlooked  the  tree-tops  and  gave  me  a  view  of  a  wide 
stretch  of  the  lake,  the  river  creeping  away  in  the  distance,  the 
gleaming  trunks  of  birch  and  spiral  tops  of  cedars  lifting  above 
an  impenetrable  tangle  of  interlocking  trees  and  bushes. 

Every  morning  a  large  Eagle  with  a  golden  head,  either 
fishing  or  preying  on  water  birds,  hung  above  the  lake,  and 
how  my  guide  and  I  did  hunt  for  the  nest  of  that  bird !  We  never 
found  it,  but  in  our  search  we  located,  in  a  big  hollow  tree  behind 
our  hotel,  a  family  that  repaid  our  disappointment.  If 
you  never  saw  Strix  pratincola  in  her  chosen  location,  busy 
keeping  house,  then  you  have  missed  one  of  the  rarest  sights  of 
birdland.  \Ve  named  her  "Monkey -face,"  buffoon  that  she 
was,  the  minute  we  caught  sight  of  her,  blinkingly  peering  from 
her  front  door  to  learn  if  it  were  too  early  to  go  hunting  and  sadly 
shaking  her  low-hung  head,  as  if  all  the  woes  of  birdland  rested 
heavily  on  her  shoulders.  Her  face  wras  heart-shaped,  sharply 
outlined  with  several  rows  of  crisp  up-standing  brown  feathers 
and  covered  with  white  feathers  lightly  tinged  with  the  pale  ash 
and  lavender  which  proved  her  a  last  year's  bird.  Her  eyes  were 
small,  for  an  Owl,  and  slightly  oblong.  Her  beak  and  mouth 
were  almost  hidden  with  long  silky  down.  Her  breast  was  paler 
than  her  face  and  touched  here  and  there  with  tiny  black  feath- 
ers. On  the  top  of  her  head  began  a  beautiful  light  tan  colour 
that  took  on  strength  as  it  spread  over  her  back,  wings  and  tail. 
A-top  her  head  and  across  her  shoulders  she  was  thickly  sprinkled 
with  tiny  black  feathers  tipped  with  white.  Her  primaries  and 
secondaries  were  lightly  barred  with  brown,  but  her  tertiary  and 
shoulder  feathers  were  solid  tan,  while  each  seemed  to  end  with 
this  peculiar  tipping  of  black  and  white.  She  had  four  strong 
toes,  and  her  legs  were  bare  to  the  first  joint.  Later  we  saw  her 
mate,  and  he  closely  resembled  her.  All  the  difference  we  could 

02 


BARN   OWL 


'Blinkingly  peering  from  her  front  door  to  learn  if  it  were  too  early  to  go 
hunting" 


THE  BARN  OWL 

note  was  that  his  face  and  breast  were  snowy  white,  with  the 
same  markings,  while  his  shade  of  tan  seemed  a  degree  lighter. 
Crouching  where  we  had  been  standing  we  watched  and  waited. 
Soon  with  the  soft,  uncanny  flight  of  an  Owl,  she  swept  over  us 
and  away  into  the  deep  dark  forest. 

Investigation  proved  that  the  tree  contained  Owl  babies,  how 
many  could  not  be  told,  but  ornithologists  allot  to  this  species  from 
three  to  five.  They  also  place  this  bird's  northern  limit  on  a  line 
with  Rhode  Island  and  its  habitat  in  the  South  and  on  the  coast; 
yet  here  was  a  true  Strix  pratincola  in  northern  Michigan,  almost 
a  full  degree  above  this  Owl's  northern  limit  and  certainly  central. 

It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  measure  the 
depth  of  that  opening  and  remove  a  section  from  the  back  of  the 
tree  that  would  allow  pictures  of  the  young  to  be  taken,  but  how 
was  one  ever  to  secure  a  camera-shot  at  the  old  ones?  That 
was  our  problem.  We  decided  to  try  to  solve  it  before  touching 
the  tree  to  work  on  the  babies. 

The  following  evening  we  were  at  the  tree  in  time  to  see 
the  Mother  Owl  leave  it  in  search  of  food.  The  opening  was 
large.  We  had  been  as  noiseless  as  possible  and  concealed  our- 
selves so  well  that  she  stood,  to  accustom  her  eyes  to  the  light, 
for  a  length  of  time  that  would  have  given  a  fine  exposure,  had 
there  been  a  camera  on  her  level. 

Fortunately  the  opening  faced  the  east.  Trees  and  branches 
could  soon  be  cut  away  to  get  direct  light,  while  there  was  another 
tree  close,  to  the  trunk  of  which  a  camera  could  be  attached  di- 
rectly opposite  the  entrance.  A  day  of  hard  work  followed. 
Cleats  were  sawed  and  nailed  to  this  tree  so  that  we  could  walk 
up  and  down  it  like  a  ladder,  and  opposite  the  Owl's  door  was 
fastened  a  small  platform  on  which  we  placed  the  camera  and  fo- 
cussed  it  on  the  opening.  It  was  useless  to  talk  of  snap  shots 
in  that  light,  so  the  shutter  was  set  at  half  a  second  on  a  medium 

65 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

plate,  the  long  hose  attached  and  the  camera  covered  with  bark. 
It  so  closely  resembled  a  huge  knot  on  a  tree  that  no  bird,  even 
with  the  keenest  eyes,  would  have  paid  the  least  attention  to  it. 

Then  we  waited  until  black  night,  but  no  birds  either  came 
to  or  left  the  tree.  We  attributed  this  fact  to  the  noise  and  dis- 
turbance we  had  made,  although  work  was  done  as  swiftly  and 
quietly  as  possible;  but  there  had  been  much  to  do,  and  several 
trees  in  our  way  could  not  be  felled  without  the  inevitable  crash. 
We  decided  to  risk  leaving  the  camera  as  it  was  and  did  not  go 
near  it  again  until  five  o'clock  the  following  evening.  Near  six, 
Mother  Owl  stood  in  her  doorway,  blinked  her  eyes,  yawned, 
hung  her  head  and  slowly  and  sadly  shook  it  back  and  forth  as 
if  life  had  no  attraction  for  her. 

Kneeling  up  in  my  anxiety,  to  see  better  through  the  under- 
brush, I  snapped  a  twig.  Mother  Owl  peered  in  my  direction,  list- 
ening intently,  every  muscle  on  the  alert.  Oh,  but  I  was  thankful 
for  a  well-oiled  shutter !  It  might  have  been  set  at  a  second,  for  fully 
that  length  of  time  elapsed  before  she  dropped  her  head  again 
and  shook  it  more  depressedly  than  before.  Then  her  body 
seemed  to  lift  suddenly  and  she  was  gone. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  I  set  that  shutter  for  a  second?"  I  groaned. 
"  She  never  moved  in  that  length  of  time." 

"To-morrow  night  we  will,"  said  my  guide,  encouragingly. 

Then  we  went  to  develop  the  plate.  We  really  had  Mother 
Owl  so  that  the  plate  could  be  intensified  into  a  printable  one, 
but  it  greatly  lacked  my  idea  of  what  could  be  done  with  this 
subject.  The  following  night  we  tried  again.  We  set  the  shutter 
at  a  second.  Mother  Owl  flew  in  the  middle  of  the  exposure,  which 
taught  me  that  I  should  have  used  the  bulb,  as  the  impulse  to 
flight  was  detected  in  time  to  have  closed  the  shutter  if  it  could 
have  been  done.  That  plate  was  spoiled. 

Then  I  conceived  a  brilliant  idea.  Why  not  close  Mother 

66 


THE  BARN  OWL 

Owl's  door  after  she  left  at  night,  and  keep  her  out  until  the 
light  was  sufficiently  strong  to  take  her  picture  in  the  morning? 
She  was  feeding  her  young,  and  they  would  be  very  hungry, 
but  not  particularly  hurt  by  a  slightly  longer  fast  than  usual,  while 
no  doubt  they  would  cry  for  food  and  keep  her  close.  When  she 
found  she  could  not  reach  them  she  would  remain  near  and  then, 
if  they  would  cry,  there  was  every  probability  that  she  would  fly 
to  them,  even  in  a  fairly  strong  light. 

That  day  my  lenses  were  polished  like  diamonds,  a  fresh  me- 
dium plate  placed  in  the  camera,  the  shutter  set  at  a  bulb  exposure 
and  everything  tested  to  see  that  it  worked  smoothly.  When 
Mother  Owl  left  that  night,  we  discussed  giving  her  until  midnight 
to  bring  several  rounds  of  food  to  the  babies,  but  dared  not  risk  it. 
If  the  Owlets  were  not  very  hungry  they  would  not  cry,  and  if  they 
did  not,  it  was  almost  sure  their  mother  would  not  try  to  fly  by  day. 

A  board  was  nailed  securely  over  the  opening.  Mother  Owl 
returned  and  attacked  it  beak  and  claw.  Soon  her  mate  came, 
and  how  the  two  of  them  worked!  It  was  almost  too  bad.  I 
fancied  I  could  see  Mother  Owl  shaking  her  head  when  she  really 
had  some  reason  to  shake  it.  My  heart  failed  me.  This  was 
not  living  up  to  my  pact.  It  was  not  treating  that  mother  as  I 
would  be  treated.  I  whispered  to  the  guide  to  go  and  take  away 
the  board.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  he  was  made  of  a  little  sterner 
stuff,  for  he  pointed  out  that  the  young  were  half  grown,  that  there 
was  nothing  happening  to  injure  them  permanently,  that  they  were 
birds  of  prey,  and  that  if  they  did  not  want  their  pictures  taken 
they  had  no  business  to  carry  around  such  faces  to  tempt  us. 

At  times  they  would  leave.  Then  they  would  return,  some- 
times together,  sometimes  singly,  and  work  to  pull  the  board 
away.  The  night  was  clear,  cool  and  filled  with  sounds.  The 
guide  repeatedly  assured  me  that  there  were  no  snakes,  while  I 
had  seen  none.  Often  we  heard  the  crashing  of  deer,  or  at  times 

67 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

the  heavier  passing  of  bear,  but  the  guide  said  they  were  only  small 
black  fellows  and  if  we  should  meet,  they  would  be  worse  scared 
than  we.  Also,  he  had  a  rifle  and  each  of  us  good  revolvers. 

With  the  dawn  both  birds  gave  up  the  struggle  and  flew  away, 
but  from  their  calls  to  each  other  we  knew  that  they  were  very 
close.  Near  six  o'clock,  when  the  good  old  red  sun  fell  fairly 
on  the  opening,  I  nodded  to  the  guide.  Quietly  as  possible  he 
slipped  to  the  tree,  climbed  it  and  removed  the  board.  Then  he 
dropped  inside  the  opening  a  piece  of  string,  weighted  with  fresh 
beefsteak  and  a  stone.  As  soon  as  he  returned  and  everything 
had  been  still  for  a  time,  he  lowered  the  meat;  then  the  young  Owls 
set  up  a  perfect  clamour.  I  was  kneeling,  watching  and  listen- 
ing with  all  my  soul.  The  night  had  been  cold,  but  I  was  wet 
with  perspiration.  The  flight  of  Mother  Owl  was  noiseless,  but 
I  felt  her  coming  and  signalled  the  guide  to  jerk  away  the  meat. 
The  string  broke  and  the  meat  fell  inside.  She  alighted  with  a 
slow  sweep  and  as  she  struck,  behind  her  I  did  my  very  best  at 
an  imitation  of  her  babies'  cry  that  I  had  been  softly  practising 
over  in  my  throat  all  the  night. 

Instantly  she  paused,  turned  to  my  direction,  surely  for  a 
full  second,  opened  her  eyes  unusually  wide  to  intensify  her  vision, 
then  she  was  gone.  Save  for  a  small  feather  she  had  slightly 
disarranged  on  one  wing  while  working  at  the  board,  she  seemed 
to  me  absolutely  perfect. 

"What  makes  you  so  white?"  asked  the  guide,  as  I  stared  at 
him  wildly. 

"I  forgot  to  squeeze  the  bulb,"  I  sobbed,  breaking  down  en- 
tirely, after  the  long  strain. 

"You  squeezed  it  until  your  finger-nails  were  white,"  he  said; 
"I  was  watching  you." 

"I  am  sure  that  I  didn't,"  I  urged,  in  the  hope  that  he  would 
say  something  in  contradiction  that  would  help  me  to  remember. 


THE  BARN  OWL 

"But  you  did,"  he  said  positively.  " Having  to  tell  me  when 
to  pull,  trying  to  imitate  the  babies  and  work  the  bulb  all  at 
once  made  so  much  you  don't  remember.  Can't  ^rou  tell  from  the 
camera  whether  you  did?" 

"  Why,  of  course ! "  I  cried  joyously.  " Take  it  down  at  once; 
and,  dear  boy,  were  you  ever  careful?" 

I  vow  his  eyes  were  wet  as  he  answered,  "Several  times 
lately.  You  look  the  other  way.  It  shall  come  down  like  a 
box  of  eggs,"  and  it  did,  with  the  shutter  closed. 

My  hands  shook  as  I  pushed  the  slide  into  the  plate-holder, 
and  withdrawing  the  holder,  wrapped  it  in  a  sheet  of  rubber. 
Before  eating  or  sleeping,  I  carried  that  plate  to  my  boarding- 
house  and  developed  it,  with  the  guide  peering  over  my  shoulder. 
It  was  breathless  work. 

"Are  you  sure  that  stuff  is  all  right?"  he  asked  as  the  chemi- 
cals were  measured  in  the  beginning.  A  minute  later:  "Can 
you  see  anything  yet?"  Then:  "Would  it  hurt  just  to  take  a 
peep  now?  She  ought  to  be  out  enough  that  you  can  see  if  she 
really  is  coming."  WThen  I  first  held  the  dripping  plate  to  the 
ruby  lamp  he  shouted:  "Hello,  old  monkey-faced  moon-eye!  I 
knew  we  had  you!  Stopped  to  look  back,  didn't  you?  And 
just  see  what  we  got!  Ginger!  Ain't  she  a  bird  ?  Yessir! 
That's  the  way  she  looked,  just  exact!" 


THE    FACE   A    PERFECT    HEART-SHAPE 


'Mourn  not  for  the  Owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight! 

The  Owl  hath,  his  share  of  good : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 
He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 
We  know  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day, 
But  the  king  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown  Owl." 

— Barry  Cornwall. 


70 


CHAPTER  V 

Indigo  Bluebird:     Passerina  Cyanea 
IN  SHRUBS 

THE  Indigo  birds 
came  to  the  Cabin  to 
nest.  While  working  in 
the  garden  one  spring  the 
Deacon  and  I  were  at- 
tracted by  the  fluttering 
and  calling  from  a  bird- 
house  containing  nineteen 
yellow  Canaries  and  green 
Linnets,  in  the  conserva- 
tory. On  the  outside  sill, 
beating  against  the  glass 
in  a  vain  attempt  to  enter, 
was  a  male  Indigo  bird. 

Evidently  the  flowers  and  shrubs  seemed  fine  to  him  for  he 
wanted  to  join  the  other  birds  chattering  among  them.  After 
trying  for  nearly  an  hour  he  returned  to  his  mate  who  had  been 
watching  him  while  prospecting  among  a  row  of  roses  and  shrubs 
screening  an  alley  wall.  On  the  wall  they  talked  it  over.  They 
approved  of  that  row  of  greenery  quite  as  much  as  we  did,  for  the 
same  forenoon  they  began  building  among  the  scraggy  branches 
of  a  bush  honeysuckle. 

The  bush  stood  where  I  had  full  view  of  it  from  the  back  door 
and  steps,  also  from  the  conservatory,  so  that  I  had  fine  oppor- 
tunity to  observe  their  nest  making.  The  male  did  not  sing  to 

73 


NEST   OF    INDIGO    FINCH 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

the  female  while  she  worked.  He  did  sing  some,  but  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  was  spent  carrying  dry  grass  and  tiny  weed  stalks 
of  which  the  nest  was  built;  he  even  entered  it  and  placed  his 
offerings  himself,  without  protest  from  the  female. 

She  was  a  grayish  brown,  but  he  was  a  gorgeous  glinting  blue, 
deep  to  purplish  in  the  strongest  shades,  gleaming  almost  silvery 
white  in  the  highest  lights  on  his  sleek  head  and  neck,  black 
feathers  in  his  wings  and  tail.  Jie  made  an  exquisite  picture 
when  he  alighted  on  the  honeysuckle  among  the  waxy  leaves  and 
yellowish  red  bloom,  or  perched  above  on  the  wall  singing 
snatches  as  he  worked.  When  he  made  a  business  of  music  he 
selected  the  topmost  twig  of  the  tallest  tree  on  the  west  of  the 
Cabin,  pouring  out  a  reckless  abandon  of  song  that  lacked  the 
melody,  yet  in  a  way  reminded  me  of.  the  Canaries  of  the  bird- 
house.  He  always  began  with  a  flourish  of  downward  grace  notes 
then  raised  clear  and  strong  above  the  ordinary  piano  keyboard 
in  notes  rising  and  falling,  then  a  level  group  of  three,  a  drop  and 
three  more,  then  back  to  the  beginning.  He  could  repeat  this 
full  strain  several  times  to  the  minute,  while  he  sang  it  almost 
uninterruptedly  for  an  hour  in  the  morning  and  sometimes  for 
nearly  two  in  the  evening,  from  five  to  seven.  This  musical 
demonstration  drove  the  Canaries  almost  crazy,  so  a  dozen  at  a 
time  they  lifted  their  voices  and  tried  to  drown  his  notes,  but 
after  a  few  days  he  mounted  his  twig  on  the  cut-leaved  birch 
closest  his  nest  and  sang  in  an  ecstasy  of  oblivion  to  every- 
thing save  the  swelling  emotions  of  his  own  tiny  heart.  Such 
outpourings  of  song  I  had  never  before  heard.  I  am  sure  he 
sang  his  strain  over  with  slight  change  a  thousand  times  a  day. 

When  he  was  not  singing,  after  the  nest  was  completed,  he 
worked  for  us  in  a  double  capacity.  He  hunted  tiny  worms  and 
beetles,  then  searched  any  last  year's  dead  stalks  he  could  find 
for  seed;  from  his  industry,  he  must  have  made  a  high  record  both 

74 


INDIGO    BLUEBIRD 

on  worms  and  weeds.  He  was  an  invaluable  member  of  our 
family  for  his  music  and  his  industry,  while  he  endeared  himself  to 
all  of  us  by  his  tender  and  unceasing  attentions  to  his  mate.  He 
helped  more  than  any  bird  I  ever  have  watched  in  nest  building, 
while  from  the  first  he  always  entered  the  nest  to  brood  when  the 
hen  went  after  her  morning  food  and  exercise.  As  she  left  the 
bush  she  uttered  a  sharp  call  that  sounded  like : "  Sir,  sir ! "  He  in- 
stantly responded  and  hurrying  to  the  bush  entered  the  nest 
and  remained  until  she  returned. 

From  the  first  day,  I  began  making  friends  with  them,  grad- 
ually introducing  a  tripod,  then  a  camera,  then  myself,  into  their 
immediate  surroundings.  When  they  had  brooded  a  week  I 
secured  a  charming  study  of  the  male  bird  while  the  light  was  full 
in  the  east  and  he  at  his  daily  stunt  of  brooding.  In  years  of 
field  work  I  think  this  is  the  only  study  I  have  of  a  brooding  male 
bird.  I  have  many  of  a  male  on  the  edge  of  a  nest,  feeding  the 
female  or  young,  but  only  this  one  of  a  male  really  settled  in  a 
nest,  with  the  patient,  absorbed  look  of  the  nesting  female  on  his 
face.  Mentioning  his  face  recalls  that  it  was  dark  on  his  cheeks 
close  around  the  beak,  while  there  was  a  tiny  speck  of  a  foreign 
growth  in  the  inside  corner  of  one  eye,  where  he  probably  had 
flown  against  a  thorn  in  a  former  nesting,  for  he  was  a  bird  of  too 
much  experience  not  to  have  nested  before;  also,  as  a  rule,  all  the 
Indigo  bird  nests  I  have  seen  are  in  thorny  bushes  like  hawthorn 
or  crab,  where  it  is  a  wonder  that  more  of  the  birds  do  not  injure 
themselves. 

After  developing  this  plate  I  decided  to  try  for  one  more,  in 
the  hope  that  the  bird  in  brooding  the  following  morning  would 
turn  his  "good  "  side  to  the  camera,  so  that  I  could  secure  a  better 
study  of  him,  and  then  begin  on  his  nest  and  eggs.  Some  time  that 
night  a  neighbour's  cat  stole  across  the  alley,  destroyed  the  nest 
and  judging  by  the  feathers,  ate  the  female,  leaving  the  male 

77 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

fluttering  disconsolately  around  the  location.  I  dislike  cats 
more  than  any  snake  I  ever  saw.  A  few  days  later,  having  heard 
rny  lamentations  about  this  nest,  Bob  found  one  for  me  in  a 
small  haw  bush  on  his  lease. 

This  pair  was  brooding  for  the  first  time  and  wild  as  any  birds 
I  ever  saw.  There  was  no  hope  of  a  study  of  the  grown  birds 
without  a  long  preliminary  training,  and  small  chance  for  it  at 
that,  so  for  the  sake  of  the  series  I  made  a  study  of  this  nest  at 
once.  A  mystifying  thing  about  it  was  that  the  birds  building 
for  the  first  time  made  a  neater,  more  compact  nest  than  those  of 
previous  experience.  Nothing  was  used  in  it  save  dry  grass  of  a 
fine  variety.  The  four  eggs  were  similar  to  all  I  ever  have  seen, 
snow  white,  although  some  naturalists  report  eggs  of  a  bluish 
white  and  one  responsible  man  has  seen  at  least  one  nest  having 
speckled  eggs. 

I  never  succeeded  in  getting  either  of  this  pair  before  the 
camera,  probably  because  I  had  a  triumph  in  the  picture  of  the 
brooding  male,  so  I  did  not  try  as  I  would  have  done  if  I  had  se- 
cured no  Indigo  pictures  at  all.  The  young  of  this  nest  were 
stodgy  little  fellows  coloured  much  like  the  mother  and  always 
stuffed  almost  to  the  bursting  point.  If  I  were  asked  to  prove 
the  value  of  the  Indigo  bluebird  as  an  exterminator  of  insects  and 
weed  seeds,  I  should  unhesitatingly  offer  this  study  of  the  four 
young  from  a  nest  which  I  visited  often,  for  each  trip  found 
them  always  in  the  same  plethoric  state,  while  the  elders  seemed 
sleek  and  well  fed  also.  The  reason  only  three  show  in  the 
picture  is  that  the  baby  moved  to  the  left  until  he  was 
bisected. 

In  going  back  and  forth  to  Bob's  lease  for  these  Indigo  Finch 
studies,  I  noticed  each  evening  on  the  home-way,  that  a  Finch 
sang  on  a  telephone  wire  beside  the  levee,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
river  bridge.  I  hunted  for  his  nest  among  the  tangle  of  small 

78 


INDIGO  BLUEBIRD 

bushes  on  each  side  of  the  road ;  Bob  joined  in  tne  search  several 
times,  but  we  never  found  it. 

This  male  sang  quite  as  uninterruptedly  and  even  more  musi- 
cally than  my  male  of  the  Cabin  birch.  He  was  there  every 
morning  and  evening,  being  so  tame  that  he  did  not  take  flight 
at  the  passing  of  car  or  carriage  close  beneath  him.  I  told  Molly- 
Cotton  about  him.  For  the  greater  part  of  that  Summer  she 
could  take  friends  to  hear  his  concert  and  never  be  disappointed 
by  his  failure  to  sing;  while  at  sunset,  if  he  chanced  to  turn  his 
gaudy  back  to  the  bright  light  of  the  ^Yest,  the  blue  became  so 
intense  it  seemed  almost  silver,  adding  a  high  and  lovely  colour- 
note  to  his  performance.  In  consideration  of  the  tenacity  with 
which  he  clung  to  the  wire  for  so  many  weeks,  he  must  have 
brought  off  more  than  one  brood  in  that  location.  Combining 
his  seed  and  insect  consumption  with  his  beauty  and  song,  he 
becomes  one  of  our  most  precious  birds. 


STUFFED    BIRDS 
79 


The  Cardinal  ate  cochineal  until  he  turned  red. 

In  fighting,  the  Wood-pecker  bloodied  his  head. 

The  Oriole  was  such  a  gay,  roving  fellow, 

He  flew  in  the  sun  until  he  burned  yellow. 

The  Brown  Thrasher  got  his  brown,  bright  and  ruddy, 

Because  he  once  fell  into  a  brown  study. 

While  the  Indigo  Bird  turned  his  brilliant  hue, 

When  he  bathed  in  a  tub  of  rinse-water  blue. 


80 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Wood  Thrush:     Hylodchla  Mustelina 

IN    THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    WOOD    ROBIN 

I  AM  always  happy  to  learn  the 
location  of  a  pair  of  birds  by  any 
method,  but  it  is  pure  delight  to 
find  a  nest  myself.  For  a  week, 
on  coming  from  field  work  in  the 
evening,  when  crossing  the  levee 
that  bridges  the  valley  lying  be- 
tween the  Wabash  and  the  outlet 
of  the  Limberlost,  I  heard  a  Wood 
Thrush  or  Bell  Bird  singing  the 
ecstatic  passion  song  of  mating 
time. 

The  embankment  was  fifteen 
feet  high.     On  either  side  of  it  lay 

patches  of  swamp  which  grew  giant  forest  trees  and  almost  im- 
penetrable thickets  of  underbrush.  There  were  masses  of  dog- 
wood, hawthorn,  wild  plum,  ironwood  and  wild  rose  bushes 
growing  beneath  the  big  trees ;  grape-vines,  trumpet  creeper  and 
wild  ivy  clambered  everywhere,  while  the  ground  was  covered 
with  violets,  anemones,  spring  beauties,  cowslips,  and  many 
varieties  of  mosses  and  ferns.  The  place  was  so  damp,  dark  and 
cool  that  the  cowslips  were  paler  than  is  their  wont,  while  the 
violets  grew  stems  a  foot  in  length.  A  small  creek  wound  a 

83 


NEST  OF  WOOD  ROBIN,  SHOWING  USE 
OF   CAST    SNAKE   SKIN 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

devious  course  through  the  valley  and  there  were  many  pools 
that  lay  filled  throughout  the  summer. 

In  all  the  surrounding  country,  here  was  the  one  spot  ex- 
actly filling  the  requirements  of  an  ideal  location  for  Wood 
Thrushes;  so  when  those  notes  of  bell-toned  sweetness  sounded, 
evening  after  evening,  from  the  same  tree,  it  was  evident  that 
somewhere  in  the  shrubs  beneath  that  divine  singer  there 
brooded  a  bright-eyed  brown-coated  mate  to  whom  he  was  pour- 
ing out  his  heart  in  notes  of  tenderness  and  cheer. 

The  following  morning,  starting  an  hour  earlier  than  usual 
and  hitching  my  little  black  horse  to  a  telephone  pole  on  the 
levee,  I  climbed  down  the  embankment.  My  way  in  the  thicket 
could  be  made  only  by  stooping  beneath  the  branches,  creeping 
between  bushes,  and  sometimes  using  my  hatchet.  My  feet 
sank  deep  into  the  damp  muck  beneath  the  thick  layer  of  dead 
leaves;  there  were  many  small  pools  to  avoid  and  once  my  course 
changed  entirely,  because  a  great  flood  of  a  few  months  previous 
had  filled  the  whole  valley  with  one  broad,  raging  torrent  that 
overwashed  the  levee.  Lodged  in  underbrush  were  a  drowned 
cow  and  some  pigs. 

When  the  tree  from  which  my  bird  had  sung  was  located,  I 
began  searching  around  it,  in  an  ever-widening  circle,  for  the 
nest.  The  first  thing  I  found  was  a  big  carp,  firmly  impaled  at 
the  height  of  my  head  on  a  thorn  tree  and  dry  as  any  herring — 
another  result  of  the  flood.  My  next  trophy  was  the  nest  of  a  pair 
of  Rose-breasted  Grosbeaks,  which  defied  the  rules  of  naturalists, 
because  they  did  not  build  in  a  wild  grape-vine,  where  grape- 
vines were  plentiful,  nor  did  they  build  of  last  year's  dried  grape- 
feelers,  but  of  sticks  and  twigs.  Then  I  found  the  largest 
Cecropia  cocoon  of  my  experience;  in  a  few  weeks  there  would 
emerge  from  it  a  beautiful  moth;  but  that  was  so  high  above  my 
head  it  could  not  be  secured  that  morning.  I  cut  it  a  week  later 

84 


THE  TVOOD  THRUSH 

and  in  my  conservatory  early  in  June  there  emerged  from  it  a 
moth  with  a  wing  spread  of  six  and  three-quarter  inches — the 
widest  of  the  species  I  ever  have  seen.  A  Woodcock  was 
flushed  and  an  hour  spent  in  searching  for  her  nest,  when  I 
remembered  that  my  quest  was  for  Bell  Birds,  so  I  returned  to 
my  original  pursuit. 

I  had  hunted  until  despairing  when  there  was  a  brown  flash 
above  my  head ;  a  male  Bell  Bird  flew  over  with  a  sharp  warning 
chirp ;  then  I  realized  I  was  close  his  home,  so  standing  still  I  used 
my  eyes  to  such  good  advantage  that  presently  I  was  looking 
straight  into  the  big,  liquid,  startled  ones  of  Mother  Bell  Bird, 
as  she  peered  down  from  an  elm  thicket  close  above  me. 

Oh,  but  she  was  beautiful!  even  in  her  plain  colours,  which 
after  all  were  not  so  plain,  for  her  back  was  a  rich  reddish  brown 
and  her  breast  snowy  white,  with  long  irregular  markings  of 
black.  My  plan  had  been  to  locate  her  that  morning  and  go  my 
way  for  a  day's  work  elsewhere;  but  a  nest  on  a  dry  plate  is  worth 
ten  in  a  bush,  for  birds  have  hosts  of  enemies,  so  you  never  know 
with  any  certainty  when  you  leave  a  nest  one  day  that  it  will  be 
safe  the  following.  It  could  be  seen  at  a  glance  that  there  was 
something  most  unusual  about  this  nest,  for  it  was  bright  as  the 
back  of  the  bird  that  brooded  on  it;  so  I  hurried  to  the  carriage 
for  my  step-ladder  to  use  as  a  tripod,  and  a  camera.  I  decided 
that  I  would  bring  a  big  one. 

I  felt  that  this  nest  was  unique,  and  s.o  it  proved.  It  was 
the  most  surprisingly  individual  piece  of  bird  architecture 
imaginable.  Disdaining  corn-husk,  straw,  and  other  material 
almost  invariably  chosen  by  their  species,  this  pair  of  birds,  with 
untold  patience  and  labour,  had  digged  from  the  ground  the  roots 
of  red  raspberries  and  nettles  and  woven  them  while  wet  into  a 
deep  cup.  There  was  not  a  particle  of  lining  and  very  little 
other  foundation:  nothing  at  all  in  the  body  of  the  nest  except 

87 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

these  two  kinds  of  roots.  They  had  dried  firmly  as  spun  glass, 
then  turned  to  a  bright  terra  cotta  colour.  The  long  soaking 
the  flood  had  given  the  valley  made  it  possible  for  the  birds  to  dig 
these  roots;  but  how  they  ever  broke  them  off  the  size  they  were  is 
still  an  unsolved  problem.  The  eggs  were  a  Robin's  delicate 
blue.  In  their  bright  cradle,  with  the  tender  green  of  the  elm 
thicket  all  around,  they  made  a  picture  that  had  to  be  seen  to  be 
appreciated  fully. 

After  making  a  record  of  the  nest  that  was  to  my  satisfaction, 
I  began  courting  the  confidence  of  the  mother  bird — truly  a 
delightful  task!  Every  morning  and  almost  every  evening  I 
visited  the  nest,  each  time  going  closer,  making  longer  waits, 
moving  with  extreme  caution,  lest  she  become  frightened, 
and  always  going  through  the  operation  of  setting  up  the  ladder 
and  a  small  camera  in  front  of  the  nest,  to  accustom  her  to  the 
process;  in  the  hope  that  I  soon  could  approach  near  enough  to 
make  a  study  of  her  as  she  brooded. 

Sometimes  I  crept  into  the  thicket  in  the  early  morning  when 
the  bushes  were  heavy  with  dew,  when  the  breath  of  night  lin- 
gered in  the  valley  and  when  the  Bell  Bird  and  the  Grosbeak  were 
singing  chants  to  the  rising  sun.  Sometimes  I  lingered  near  the 
nest  until  late  evening  when  the  woods  grew  very  still,  lacking 
the  chirp  and  chatter  of  many  little  heads  now  tucked  in  sleep. 
Then  night's  sounds  would  begin  to  rise  in  a  steady  volume  around 
me.  A  raccoon  living  in  a  hollow  tree  near  me  could  be  heard 
getting  ready  for  his  nightly  raid;  tree-toads  would  sing  inter- 
mittently. Whippoorwills  set  me  shivering,  and  once  in  June  a 
big  golden  Eccles  Imperialis  brushed  my  cheek.  I  had  to  let 
it  go  for  fear  pursuit  would  startle  my  bird  and  undo  all  my  hours 
of  watching  with  her,  yet  I  would  have  given  much  to  have 
captured  that  beautiful  moth.  Once  while  waiting  near  Mother 
Bell,  climbing  the  ladder  occasionally  and  softly  talking  to  her, 

88 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH 

I  sat  on  a  log  to  rest.  Something  touched  my  foot  and  I  looked 
down  to  see  a  big,  black  water-snake  passing  from  pool  to  pool. 
It  would  not  strike,  save  in  self-defense;  but  I  wonder  if  I  shall 
ever  learn  my  woodcraft  sufficiently  to  see  near  me  a  snake,  no 
matter  how  harmless,  without  a  feeling  of  horror. 

From  the  hour  the  mother  bird  felt  the  quickening  to  life 
of  four  little  shell-incased  bodies  against  her  breast,  she  became 
a  fanatic,  so  my  work  was  easy.  She  allowed  me  to  make 
studies  of  her  on  her  nest  and  even  to  stroke  her  wing  as  she 
brooded.  I  never  tried  to  pick  her  up.  I  thought  of  it  and 
wondered  if  it  could  be  done,  but  I  was  afraid  she  might  grip 
with  her  feet  and  carry  an  egg  from  the  nest — a  danger  not  to  be 
risked  when  there  was  no  greater  result  to  be  accomplished  than 
merely  to  prove  that  she  could  be  handled. 

After  the  nestlings  hatched,  they  soon  grew  so  accustomed  to 
me  that  they  cared  not  a  particle  whether  their  mother  or  I 
dropped  the  worms  and  berries  into  their  mouths.  Many  in- 
teresting studies  were  secured  of  them  but  not  one  nearly  equal- 
ling a  pair  of  the  young  on  the  day  they  left  the  nest.  These 
babies  were  bright,  alert  and  sweet,  beautifully  coloured  and  very 
easy  to  coax  into  poses.  Surely  the  male  made  as  exquisite  a 
singer  as  his  father,  and  the  female  another  brave  tender-eyed 
mother  bird. 

The  taking  of  these  pictures  was  comparatively  easy.  Fight- 
ing my  way  through  the  thicket,  carrying  heavy  cameras,  drag- 
ging a  twenty-foot  step-ladder  for  a  tripod,  avoiding  poisonous 
vines,  snakes,  miring  in  muck,  being  stung  by  insects  and 
scratched  by  briers  was  not  so  easy,  but  all  that  is  in  any  real 
field-worker's  daily  life. 

Here  is  a  study  of  this  rare  and  beautiful  bird-home  and  of 
the  pair  of  handsome  youngsters  hatched  from  it;  but  what  would 
I  not  give  if  everyone  could  hear  the  Bell  Bird's  exquisite  notes, 

89 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

rolling  down  the  valley,  as  he  courted,  comforted,  and  guarded 
his  mate?  All  of  my  life  I  shall  hear  him  as  he  would  come  hop- 
ping from  branch  to  branch  toward  his  choir-loft,  tenderly  ques- 
tioning: "Uoli?  Uoli?"  Then  in  a  burst  of  impassioned  rap- 
ture, clear  as  the  finest  golden-toned  flute :  "  A-e-o-l-e !  A-e-o-l-e ! 
Aeolee,  lee,  lee ! " 


YOUNG   BELL   BIKD    HIDING 
UNDER    LEAF 


90 


MALE  GOLDFINCH  FEEDING  YOUNG 


CHAPTER  VII 

Goldfinch:  Astragalinus  Tristis  Pdllidus 

IN     BUSHES 

MY  FIRST  friendship  with  the  Gold- 
finches began  in  my  mother's  garden. 
That  possessive  evokes  a  smile  as  I 
write  it.  Certainly  father  and  the 
boys  made  that  garden,  yet  it  was 
always  spoken  of  as  mother's.  It  was 
as  much  a  personal  possession  as  her 
dress  or  her  dishes.  I  smile  again  as 
I  think  of  the  garden.  There  was 
not  a  weed  in  it.  The  walks  were 
smooth  and  broad,  the  beds  held  in 
shape  by  neatly  staked  boards.  There 
were  radishes,  onions  and  lettuce, 
beets,  cabbage  and  tomatoes,  a  herb 
bed,  a  strawberry  bed,  long  rows  of 
blackberry  and  raspberry  bushes,  cur- 
rant and  gooseberry,  a  grape  arbour, 
and  leek  and  garlic  tucked  away  under 

some  vines;  yet  the  impression  one  had  from  the  highway,  the 
dooryard,  or  gate,  was  of  a  flower  bed,  for  flowering  shrubs  filled 
the  corners;  hardy  perennials  bordered  the  front  and  side  fences, 
over  which  clambered  creeper,  honeysuckle,  and  cypress  vines;  and 
annuals  bordered  and  intermingled  with  the  vegetables  of  each 

93 


FEMALE   GOLDFINCH    ENTERING 
NEST 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

bed.  You  could  not  see  lettuce  for  larkspur,  gaudy  poppies 
flamed  above  the  onions,  radishes  were  extracted  without  dis- 
turbing the  coreopsis.  Buttercups,  columbine,  cinnamon  pinks 
and  every  dear  old-fashioned  flower  homed  in  that  garden; 
possibly  this  explains  why  it  was  "mother's  garden;"  yet  from  it 
came  strawberries  for  a  family  of  fourteen,  exclusive  of  help  and 
guests;  plenty  of  berries  for  jam  and  preserves,  the  same  of  every 
other  berry  and  fruit  in  it;  all  the  vegetables  we  could  use,  and 
many  went  to  the  neighbours,  the  minister  and  the  pig  pen;  a 
huge  kraut  barrel  was  filled  each  fall  from  cabbage  that  had 
grown  beneath  castor  beans  and  sunflowers;  but  always  to  us  and 
to  the  public  it  appeared  a  flower  garden,  while  one  of  the  com- 
ponent parts  of  it  were  the  flocks,  literally  flocks  of  Goldfinches 
that  came  each  mid-August  and  from  then  until  snowfall  feasted 
on  radish,  lettuce  and  flower  seeds. 

They  gathered  from  the  fence  rows,  woods  pasture  and  forest 
to  come,  a  golden  warbling  company,  rising  and  falling  in  short 
waves  and  spurts  of  flight,  singing  on  wing  until  the  bright  sum- 
mer air  was  heavy  with  light,  fragrance  and  melody;  I  filled  my 
soul  with  enough  of  it  to  last  a  lifetime  and  send  around  the 
world  from  just  "mother's  garden."  I  am  one  dividend  from 
that  garden  on  which  my  mother  did  not  reckon;  she  aspired 
to  present  a  picture  to  the  passerby  and  to  her  family,  also  to 
fill  her  conserve  closet  shelves;  she  never  dreamed  that  she  was 
writing  future  books,  by  proxy.  So  I  sat  among  those  flowers 
by  the  day,  looking,  listening,  thinking  very  big  thoughts  for  so 
small  a  person;  to-day  no  part  of  the  picture  is  more  loved  and 
bright  in  memory  than  the  sweep  of  the  singing  throng  rising 
over  the  high  picket  fence,  then  dropping  on  the  swaying  lettuce 
and  radish  seed  stalks.  Often  they  almost  alighted  on  me;  once 
one  flew  in  our  open  front  door  and  for  a  few  palpitant  seconds 
I  held  its  little  trembling  body  in  my  eager  grasp.  I  was  so  loth 

94 


GOLDFINCH 

to  release  it,  I  suggested  an  empty  canary  cage,  recently  devas- 
tated by  a  neighbour's  prowling  cat;  but  my  mother  said:  "It 
is  a  tiny  wild  thing  almost  as  delicate  as  the  humming  birds. 
Would  you  want  to  see  it  starving  for  the  food  it  likes,  its  feathers 
draggled,  its  head  bleeding  from  cage  fighting?  "  We  called  them 
wild  Canaries;  that  one  was  back  to  freedom  before  my  mother's 
sentence  was  finished;  then  she  scolded  me  for  letting  it  go  so 
quickly,  because  my  sister  Ada  had  not  had  her  turn  at  holding 
it  a  minute.  Such  is  life. 

With  all  of  that  experience  with  the  birds,  I  never  had  located 
and  never  had  seen  a  nest  until  in  my  second  summer  of  field 
work,  when  an  oil  pumper  on  our  farm  found  one  for  me  on  the 
Martin  lease  adjoining.  It  was  midsummer,  as  these  birds 
come  late  and  build  but  once.  It  was  placed  in  the  crotch  at  the 
branching  of  a  small  tree,  being  a  very  deep,  large  structure  for 
the  size  of  the  bird.  The  material  was  dainty  fine  grass  and  weed 
stalks,  bits  of  twig  and  moss,  spider  web  and  milkweed  down 
liberally  used  in  the  side  walls  and  rim,  the  lining  a  white  silken 
bed.  There  were  four  eggs.  Not  knowing  how  recently  the 
bird  had  begun  brooding  and  not  having  a  tripod  tall  enough  to 
reproduce  the  eggs,  which  were  a  dull  pale  blue,  having  tiny  dots 
on  the  larger  end,  in  their  nest  of  thistle  and  milkweed  down, 
appearing  like  fine  jewels,  I  set  up  and  focussed  the  camera 
perhaps  twenty  feet  away,  covered  it  and  went  into  seclusion.  I 
heard  the  mother  bird  coming  back.  Baby  Orioles  are  the  most 
talkative  children  of  birdland,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Swifts,  but  among  the  adults  the  chatter,  chirp  and  song  of  the 
Goldfinch  are  as  nearly  continuous  as  any  notes  I  know.  They 
have  such  amiable  dispositions,  that  were  their  songs  less  melodi- 
ous, they  would  become  a  nuisance.  Luckily,  having  the  deep 
cavernous  upper  mandible  of  all  Finches,  they  have,  because  of  it, 
the  mellow  voice,  full  of  music. 

97 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

Their  song  and  call  notes  strongly  suggest  the  Canary;  not 
that  they  either  warble  or  trill,  merely  the  sounds  are  alike,  the 
Goldfinch  notes  being  full,  clear,  melodious,  and  touched  with  the 
zest  and  joke  of  life  to  a  degree  not  even  equalled  by  the  Bobolink. 
Bob  gives  a  dizzying  outpouring  of  notes  rolling  in  a  jumble,  that 
sets  the  listener  straining  his  ears,  his  mouth  agape  in  the  attempt 
to  follow  and  interpret,  but  little  gold  bird  never  fails  to  make  you 
smile,  even  to  laugh  aloud  at  his  joy  in  life.  Riding  air  waves 
he  comes  sailing  toward  you  crying  in  full  rising  and  falling  notes 
of  pure  melody:  "Pt'seet!  Pt'seet!"  Then  his  full  strain: 
"Put  seed  in  it!  Put  seed  in  it!"  Always  ending  with  the 
question:  "Do  you  see  me?" 

I  saw  her.  So  when  she  alighted  on  the  edge  of  her  nest,  a 
little  olive  greenish  bird,  of  leafy  shading  like  the  foliage  around 
her,  I  was  ready,  and  as  she  leaned  to  closely  inspect  her  eggs,  I 
secured  this  likeness.  Her  gold-and-black  mate  must  have  been 
far  afield,  for  I  did  not  see  him.  The  light  was  in  the  west. 
When  I  returned  the  following  afternoon  to  try  for  a  better  pic- 
ture of  her  and  one  of  the  eggs,  I  was  disappointed  to  find  that 
browsing  cattle  rushing  among  the  bushes  to  scrape  flies  from 
their  sides,  had  so  bent  and  twisted  this  bush  that  the  nest  lay 
torn  and  trampled  on  the  ground. 

A  few  days  later  Bob  told  me  about  a  nest  he  had  found  in  the 
crotch  of  some  ash  bushes  in  a  ditch,  at  the  foot  of  the  levee,  at  the 
east  end  of  the  Wabash  River  bridge,  on  the  north  side,  on  the 
Shimp  farm.  I  could  work  on  the  nest  for  about  one  hour  in 
the  morning,  as  the  light  fell  full  on  it  only  at  that  time,  while  the 
young  were  already  hatched,  pinfeathering,  and  able  to  stand  and 
call  for  food.  I  set  up  a  camera  far  enough  away  that  they  would 
see  it  and  yet  not  be  disturbed  by  it,  left  it  there  for  a  long  time, 
then  moved  it  closer,  and  finally  before  leaving,  trimmed  and  tied 
back  the  bushes  all  I  dared,  not  to  expose  the  nest.  The  following 

98 


GOLDFINCH 

morning  I  had  my  camera  set  at  the  right  time,  close  enough  to 
secure  these  pictures,  as  they  are;  covered  it;  tied  back  the  bushes 
a  little  farther;  and  hiding,  began  waiting. 

The  young  were  clamorous  for  food.  I  thought  there  were 
six  in  the  nest  from  the  bobbing  heads,  but  count  on  the  plates 
proved  only  four.  Both  old  birds  constantly  flew  with  food, 
which  they  had  swallowed  and  then  regurgitated  in  large  white 
pellets,  mostly  hulled  seeds  no  doubt.  They  did  not  empty  the 
cloaca,  the  nest  being  completely  encrusted  on  all  sides  without, 
but  the  young  were  clean,  the  elders  dainty  as  possible.  In 
the  succeeding  days  I  made  numbers  of  studies,  gradually  moving 
the  camera  close  and  mostly  preferring  the  male  as  he  showed 
better  on  the  plate.  Each  time  I  left  I  closed  the  bushes  care- 
fully; removing  every  trace  of  my  work.  I  was  training  the 
young,  and  had  them  almost  ready  to  take  their  pictures,  when 
the  morning  hour  found  the  nest  empty;  not  a  trace  of  any  vio- 
lence, but  empty.  I  was  sure  they  were  not  ready  to  go,  but 
they  were  gone.  With  all  the  woodcraft  I  had  at  command,  I 
could  form  no  conclusions  as  to  when  or  how  they  had  disap- 
peared. I  could  not  hear  them  in  the  shrubbery,  and  not  a  note 
from  the  elders,  so  to-day  I  have  no  idea  what  happened  to  them, 
nor  have  I  ever  found  another  nest;  yet  each  summer  hun- 
dreds come  to  our  garden  and  sunflower  hedge,  grown  especially 
for  their  benefit. 

Remembering  my  experience  in  mother's  garden,  I  would 
advise  anyone  desiring  to  attract  Goldfinches  to  their  grounds 
to  allow  plenty  of  lettuce  to  go  to  seed  in  the  garden.  These 
birds  also  feast  on  radish  seed,  while  they  are  perfect  gourmands 
over  the  tiny  grains  of  mustard  seed. 

During  work  on  the  Hardison  Orioles  of  this  book,  I  noticed 
in  the  old,  country  garden  adjoining  the  orchard,  such  flocks  of 
feeding  Goldfinches  that  several  times  I  was  tempted  to  try  to 

99 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

» 

set  up  the  camera  there  and  picture  them  as  they  fed.  They 
seemed  especially  to  congregate  over  a  large  bed  of  vegetable 
oyster  plants,  then  in  seed.  They  also  flocked  over  the  tall 
plants  of  the  lady-finger,  while  they  made  a  perfect  picture  on  the 
brilliant  heads  of  coxcomb;  the  tiny  black  seeds  of  which  made 
an  eagerly  sought  tidbit.  Any  or  all  of  these  plants  are  liked  by 
the  Goldfinches,  and  with  sunflowers  and  many  others,  will  serve 
to  bring  to  any  private  garden  in  their  range  a  golden  company, 
riding  the  air  in  waves  of  gay,  musical  flight. 


MALE   GOLDFINCH   AT   EXCREMENT-COVERED   NEST 
100 


THE    KILLDEER   NEST 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Killdeer:     Oxyechus  Vociferus 

ON    THE    GROUND 

"JOHN  has  a  nest  for  you,"  said  a  sweet-faced  country  woman, 
as  she  poured  my  second  glass  of  buttermilk. 

So  many  wonderful  things  come  to  me  in  that  simple  way, 
but  my  heart  always  gives  the  same  old  thump  of  delightful  an- 
ticipation. 

"Did  he  say  what  kind?"  I  questioned  eagerly. 

"He  thinks  it's  one  of  these  'killdeer '-crying  birds.  It  flew 
up  right  under  the  horses'  noses  and  he  had  to  pull  back  hard  on 
them  to  save  the  nest.  It's  in  the  east  corn-field,  where  he  is 
working.  He  plowed  around  it  and  drove  a  stake  to  mark 
the  place  for  you.  There's  four  eggs  and  she's  gone  back  to 
them." 

I  thought  intently  for  a  moment.  "One  of  these  'killdeer'- 

103 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

crying  birds."  I  could  not  remember  having  seen  a  study  of 
the  nest  of  a  Killdeer  published,  not  even  in  a  recent  work  de- 
voted exclusively  to  bird  architecture,  or  a  reproduction  of  the 
young.  I  promptly  hugged  Mrs.  Stukey,  because  I  love  these 
big-souled  countnr  people  who  save  me  nests,  lay  down  their 
fences,  offer  food  and  a  cooling  drink,  and  try  in  every  way  to 
help  me  in  work  they  do  not  always  understand,  merely  because 
they  enjoy  being  kind  and  helpful.  Then  I  hurried  to  the  east 
corn-field. 

The  gate  from  the  road  into  the  field  was  nailed  shut,  so  I 
hitched  my  horse,  whose  original  name  was  Ben,  but  regardless  of 
sex,  since  has  been  changed  to  Patience:  for  obvious  reasons; 
climbed  the  gate  and  started  for  what  seemed  like  a  stake  far 
across  the  field.  Part  of  my  course  lay  between  the  weather- 
beaten  dry  weeds  and  the  stubble  of  last  year's  crop;  the  re- 
mainder over  freshly  plowed  ground. 

The  open  sunny  field  was  almost  a  sheet  of  green  in  perspec- 
tive, with  the  tender  upspringing  wild  lettuce,  silvery  catnip, 
golden  green  dandelion  and  pale  whitish  burdock.  The  light 
green  felt  of  the  mullein  and  the  rank  dark  green  of  the  thistle 
spread  everywhere  in  big  plants,  that  had  slept  securely  beneath 
the  snows  and  renewed  their  vigorous  growth  before  the  last 
drifts  of  March  had  passed.  It  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  if  we 
had  learned  everything  about  thistles  and  mullein  it  was  in- 
tended we  should.  These  plants  must  have  been  made  so 
rank  and  so  hardy  for  some  especial  reason  which  I  scarcely 
think  we  have  found. 

On  nearing  the  plowed  ground,  a  clamour  broke  on  my  ears 
and  I  stopped,  enthralled  by  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sights 
conceivable.  Down  the  field  came  John,  the  lines  hanging  over  a 
plow-handle,  guiding  his  powerful  gray  Percherons  by  his  voice, 
a  black  line  of  swamp  loam  rolling  up  as  he  passed,  while  myriads 

104 


THE  KILLDEER 

of  big  birds  were  swarming  over  him  or  fighting  for  place  on  the 
freshly  turned  earth  at  his  heels. 

"T 'check!  T 'check!  T'chee!"  cried  a  whole  flock  of 
Blackbirds,  the  sun  flashing,  on  their  iridescent  satin  wings  and 
sleek  heads,  as  they  circled  around  or  stepped  gracefully  down  the 
furrow,  searching  for  grubs.  Sombre-coated  Crows  cawed  in 
full-fed  satisfaction,  while  plump-breasted  Robins  cried,  "Kip, 
kip !  Cut,  cut,  cut ! "  in  exultation  over  each  juicy  morsel.  There 
was  the  azure  flash  of  the  Bluebird's  wing  as  he  occasionally 
stopped  searching  for  nest  locations  along  the  old  snake  fence  or 
in  the  high  stumps  to  dart  down  for  some  small  insect.  There 
was  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  Killdeers,  and  the  silver  gleam  of 
their  snowy  underwings  and  breasts  as  they  hung  over  a  pool,  fed 
by  wells  drilled  to  produce  oil  and  contrarily  producing  water; 
while  Meadow  Larks  left  their  nests  in  the  adjoining  wheat-field, 
making  excursions  from  high  stumps  and  fence  riders  to  secure 
their  share  of  the  feast,  then  returning  again  to  proclaim  the 
season  with  notes  of  piercing  melody. 

Twenty  fields  had  been  passed  in  the  process  of  spring  plowing 
that  day;  a  few  scared  birds  hanging  over  the  fences  or  scattering 
before  the  crack  of  a  shot-gun  were  all  that  could  be  seen.  There 
was  only  one  John  above  whom  they  swarmed  in  absolute  con- 
fidence; there  was  only  one  John  who  paused  a  second  now  and 
then  to  kick]open  big  pieces  of  muck,  or  stooped  to  break  them  with 
his  hands  and  fling  the  grubs  to  the  birds.  And  was  he  not  wise? 
Was  not  their  trust  in  him,  the  company  they  were  to  him,  the 
music  they  made  for  him,  a  soul-feast  for  any  man?  Was  not 
every  grub  and  worm  eaten  then  one  less  to  prey  on  his  young  crop 
later? 

Long  before  I  reached  the  stake  set  to  guide  me,  a  clear, 
musical  "Te-dit!  Te-dit!"  rang  from  a  sentinel  above  the 
swamp,  then  straight  toward  me  on  slender  stilt-legs  a  female 

105 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Killdeer  came  running.  She  uttered  a  shrill  cry  and  turned  to 
the  south,  directly  away  from  the  stake,  limping,  hopping,  and 
dragging  a  wing  to  attract  my  attention.  That  trick  had  been 
familiar  to  me  ever  since  I  could  remember,  so  I  went  to  the  stake. 
The  nest,  or  rather  the  eggs,  were  easily  located  by  the  small  spot 
around  which  John  had  plowed. 

There  was  very  little  nest  to  describe.  On  bare  earth,  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  bits  of  bark,  corn-stalk  and  chips,  all  picked  up 
in  the  immediate  vicinity,  lay  four  tan-coloured  eggs  thickly 
sprinkled  with  dark  brown  and  black,  their  sharp  points  nosing 
together  so  that  a  stiff  wind  could  not  roll  them  away — a  wise 
provision  of  nature  in  case  these  improvident  mothers  neglect  to 
surround  them  by  any  barriers  at  all,  as  so  often  occurs.  When  a 
few  days  of  sunshine  had  dried  the  black  earth  around  the  nest  to 
the  exact  colour  of  the  eggs  it  would  be  impossible  to  distinguish 
it  from  the  surroundings.  I  hunted  a  stone  to  drive  deeper  the 
stake  which  John  had  set  for  my  guidance.  Then  arranging  my 
camera,  practically  on  the  ground,  a  study  of  the  eggs  was  made 
at  once.  I  wanted  it  so  much  I  was  afraid  of  delay.  There  are 
times  when  in  summing  up  the  dangers  which  menace  the  birds 
from  snakes,  Hawks,  Crows,  Jays,  squirrels,  and  other  small  ani- 
mals, hunters,  untaught  children,  and  the  trampling  and  tearing  of 
browsing  stock,  it  is  really  a  marvel  that  a  season  produces  the 
number  of  young  that  it  does. 

The  next  thing  was  to  make  friends  with  Mother  Killdeer. 
In  the  light  of  early  experiences,  with  one  brooding  Killdeer  in 
particular,  I  had  dreamed  dreams  and  seen  visions  on  my  way  to 
that  nest.  I  dreamed  of  becoming  so  well  acquainted  with  that 
mother  bird  that  she  would  take  a  cricket  from  my  fingers  and 
allow  me  to  stroke  her  wing  as  she  brooded,  for  I  once  had  done 
that  with  a  bird  of  her  kind.  I  saw  a  vision  of  pictures  of  the 
brooding  bird,  and  possibly  one  as  she  left  her  nest  with  her  young 

106 


THE  KILLDEER 

around  her,  for  I  once  was  so  familiar  with  a  Killdeer  she  would 
have  allowed  me  even  greater  familiarity  than  would  be  required 
for  that. 

There  are  birds  which  make  me  feel  that  the  title  of  this  book 
should  be  "Failures  in  Feathers."  This  Killdeer  was  one  of  my 
worst.  She  was  a  last-year's  bird,  this  her  first  brooding.  She 
was  nervous  and  foolish.  She  would  suffer  the  horses  to  come 
very  close,  but  the  first  glimpse  of  John  would  send  her  a  gray 
streak  across  the  field.  I  tried  to  accustom  her  to  a  tripod;  that 
she  bore;  but  when  a  small  camera  covered  with  twigs  was  placed 
on  it,  she  left  her  eggs  and  would  not  return. 

She  was  accustomed  to  the  open  field.  She  deserted  her  nest 
at  every  device  I  could  think  of,  circling  above,  crying  so  plain- 
tively that  my  heart  failed  me  until  I  removed  the  camera.  She 
would  not  submit  to  a  camera  covered  with  a  green  cloth,  grasses, 
or  a  false  stump.  My  experience  with  her  did  much  to  confirm 
me  in  my  belief  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  work  with  a  young 
bird  in  her  first  brooding.  After  a  season  or  two  and  several 
nestings  a  female  matures  and  grows  in  confidence.  She  learns 
to  distinguish  friends  from  enemies  and  unfamiliar  objects 
from  dangers,  so  that  work  about  her  can  be  carried  on  with 
some  degree  of  assurance,  especially  after  her  eggs  have  quick- 
ened. 

While  lying  awake  nights  trying  to  concoct  some  scheme 
whereby  to  outwit  Mother  Killdeer,  I  was  compelled  to  miss  one 
day's  visit  to  her,  and  on  going  the  following,  found  only  a  bare 
spot  of  earth  surrounded  by  a  few  clods  and  chips.  AMiile  I 
closely  investigated  to  see  if  any  signs  of  tragedy  could  be  found, 
my  ear  caught  the  sweetest,  faintest  silver  thread  of  a  cry 
conceivable  from  the  throat  of  a  bird  baby.  I  glanced  toward 
the  pool.  Across  its  bare  bank  moved  the  brown  and  white  body 
of  the  mother,  her  slender  legs  invisible  in  the  rapidity  of  motion; 

107 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

behind  her,  almost  keeping  pace,  a  tiny  ball  of  down  also  invisibly 
propelled. 

Pursuit  began.  The  old  bird  at  once  took  wing.  Watching 
the  baby  I  darted  here  and  there,  and  ran  and  ran. 

"Want  help?"  inquired  my  daughter  from  the  carriage  on  the 
road. 

'"Deed  I  do!"  I  panted,  running  faster. 

Molly-Cotton  joined  the  chase.  After  repeated  failures, 
we  caught  him.  We  were  breathless,  dishevelled,  while  he  was 
not  even  "winded."  He  certainly  was  the  most  exquisite  bird 
baby  I  ever  handled.  His  entire  covering  was  of  the  softest, 
silkiest  down.  On  his  head  was  a  little  tan  cap,  sprinkled  with 
pepper-and-salt,  having  a  black  band,  chin  strap,  and  a  white 
vizor.  Around  his  throat  was  a  broad  snowy  collar  with  a 
narrow  black  tie.  His  coat  and  the  upper  half  of  his  sleeves 
were  the  same  as  his  cap.  The  lower  sleeve  was  white,  separated 
from  the  upper  by  a  black  band.  His  vest  began  snowy  white  at 
the  collar,  then  shaded  through  delicate  gradations  to  an  exquisite 
salmon  pink.  He  had  a  small  neat  long  bill,  long  bare  legs  and 
the  big  prominent  eyes  of  the  nocturnal  feeder,  for  Killdeer  feed 
and  fly  at  night  when  they  choose. 

We  expended  what  breath  we  had  left  in  going  into  raptures 
over  his  suit,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  baby  voice.  Then  Molly- 
Cotton  held  the  bird  while  a  camera  was  set  up.  She  placed 
him  on  the  bank  while  I  focussed  sharply  on  his  head  and  her 
hands.  Then  I  put  in  a  quick  plate,  set  the  shutter  at  the  one 
hundredth  of  a  second  and  told  her  to  let  him  go.  He  went. 
He  had  covered  a  rod  before  I  sufficiently  recovered  from  my  sur- 
prise to  see  that  no  exposure  had  been  made.  Then  I  realized 
that  a  plate  had  been  saved,  for  there  would  have  been  nothing 
on  it. 

No  record  was  kept  of  the  trials  we  gave  him  or  the  different 

108 


THE  KILLDEER 

methods  we  used.  We  worked  two  and  one  half  hours  over 
him.  We  were  bathed  in  perspiration,  had  crimson  faces,  were 
breathless,  our  hats  lost,  our  clothing  torn  on  the  bushes,  our 
hands  and  faces  scratched,  our  feet  bruised  and  twisted  with 
the  stones,  while  close  before  us  that  little  dandy,  in  his 
elaborate  suit,  moved  like  a  tiny  airship,  fresh  as  at  the  start. 
He  travelled  as  easily  as  a  puff  of  thistledown  rolling  before 
the  wind. 

"We  can  keep  this  up  forever —       '  I  began. 
"No,    we  can't,"    interrupted  Molly-Cotton;    "the   sun  is 
that  hot,  I  am  so  dizzy  I  can't  see.     I'll  step  on  him  next." 

She  was  right.  We  were  so  tired  we  were  in  danger  of  stumb- 
ling and  hurting  the  bird,  while  he  was  a  runner  that  could  keep 
on  all  day. 

He  had  crossed  one  big  stone  repeatedly.  I  usually  twisted 
my  foot  in  going  over  it.  I  left  Molly-Cotton  to  watch  the  baby 
and  focussed  sharply  on  that  stone,  heaping  sand  against  it  with 
my  hands,  so  that  he  could  run  up  it  easily.  There  were  bushes 
behind  it,  so  stones  and  rotten  wood  were  piled  among  them  until 
a  thick  wall  was  formed.  Then  a  focussing  cloth  was  staked  be- 
fore the  camera,  so  that  he  would  not  run  toward  that,  the  shut- 
ter moved  up  to  the  one  five-hundredth  of  a  second,  then  Molly- 
Cotton  was  asked  to  turn  him  slowly  and  carefully  that  way  once 
again.  The  first  time  he  crossed  was  a  failure. 

I  manoeuvred  him  back;  Molly-Cotton  turned  him  toward  the 
stone  again.  Twice  he  darted  past.  That  was  stopped  by 
blocking  the  path  he  took  with  pieces  of  wood.  'The  fourth 
time  Molly-Cotton  started  him  my  way  I  moved  closer  to  the 
stone  than  before.  As  the  tiny  legs  flashed  up  it,  I  loomed  so 
large  on  the  other  side  that  for  one  smallest  fraction  of  a  second 
he  hesitated.  Then  he  went  free,  for  in  that  instant  I  had  se- 
cured his  likeness. 

109 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

This  spring  a  little  friend  found  a  nest  from  which  all  the 
brood  had  gone,  save  one.  This  bird  was  so  recently  from  the 
shell  the  down  was  scarcely  dry ;  so  I  obtained  a  reproduction  of 
it  before  it  was  strong  enough  to  stand. 


-       'v  '" 
BABY    KILLDEER   JUST    FROM    SHELL 


Notice  how  the  three  distinct  colours  on  him  fit  into  the  surrounding  landscape 


110 


MALE  BLUEBIRD  CARRYING  FOOD 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Bluebird:  Sialia  Sialis 

IN    ORCHARDS   AND    BIRD    BOXES 


FEMALE  AT  NEST,  HER  FACE  SERIOUS 
AS   USUAL 


No  BIRDS,  not  even  Robins 
and  Wrens,  are  more  component 
parts  of  a  home  in  the  country  or 
village  than  Bluebirds.  They  are 
among  the  very  earliest  arrivals, 
often  coming  before,frost  and  snow 
time  is  past.  The  ancient  Chinese 
pronounced  blue  "the  perfect  col- 
our." Never  is  blue  among  birds 
found  in  such  perfection  as  on  the 
back  of  a  male  Bluebird  far  ad- 
vanced in  life.  Then,  too,  coming 
before  foliage,  and  building  by 
preference  in  hollow  rails,  trees, 
limbs  and  prepared  bird  boxes,  he 
drops  low  and  takes  wing  in  plain 
sight,  so  that  we  have  the  benefit  of 
his  beautiful  colour  at  close  range, 
without  the  shadowing  foliage. 
The  female  is  not  so  bright  blue 
as  the  male,  but  by  comparison 
with  the  male  she  is  much  bluer 
than  a  hen  Cardinal  is  red. 
113 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

There  is  no  bird  more  friendly  with  man  or  more  welcome; 
a  vision  for  the  eyes,  forever  changing  from  almost  silver  lights 
to  deep  turquoise  and  deeper  indigo,  as  light  and  shadow  effect 
it;  the  earliest  song  bird,  the  song  a  minor  strain  made  up  of 
a  few  notes  resembling  the  Robin's  in  grouping,  but  the  tonal 
quality  very  different.  The  Robin  holds  up  his  head  and  sings 
in  ecstasy,  for  the  pure  delight  of  living,  liquid,  ringing  notes; 
the  Bluebird  wavers  and  quavers  out  almost  the  same  notes, 
yet  so  different  in  tone  and  delivery  that  few  would  notice  the 
similarity  in  the  character  of  the  song.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
Bluebirds  have  acquired  this  plaintive  song  from  the  griefs  that 
so  often  befall  them  in  their  home  life;  for  it  has  been  my  experi- 
ence that  nesting  Bluebirds  come  to  grief  ten  times  to  the  Robins' 
once. 

This,  no  doubt,  comes  from  the  nesting  locations  Bluebirds 
choose,  and  the  fact  that  they  love  to  build  in  bird-houses  placed 
for  them,  where  often  they  can  be  reached  by  cats  and  squirrels, 
while  it  is  impossible  so  to  construct  a  box  that  it  will  admit  a 
Bluebird  and  exclude  a  Sparrow.  My  childhood  home  was  be- 
loved of  Bluebirds,  where  they  were  protected  and  given  encour- 
agement, yet  disaster  seemed  to  follow  them.  The  cattle  pushed 
their  hollow  rail  from  the  fence,  the  red  squirrel  found  the  nest, 
the  wind  broke  the  hollow  limb  from  the  apple-tree,  or  the  neigh- 
bour's cat  came  down  and  climbed  the  hollow  post  in  the  wood- 
yard.  In  my  own  home  the  particular  bane  of  the  Bluebird  is 
the  English  Sparrow.  I  could  fill  a  book  with  stories  of  their 
encounters,  the  Bluebirds  always  being  beaten  out  with  one 
exception,  for  we  had  no  recourse  against  the  Sparrows  save  the 
little  shot  gun,  the  crack  of  which  always  frightened  away  the 
Bluebirds.  They  would  not  defend  themselves  against  the  Spar- 
rows, although  they  seemed  large  and  strong  enough. 

One  nest  I  destroyed  myself.  Late  in  the  fall  I  had  the 

114 


BLUEBIRD   NEST   AND    EG( 


THE  BLUEBIRD 

gardener  take  a  box  from  the  grape-arbour  and  turn  it  entrance 
down  for  its  protection  during  winter.  Early  in  the  spring  I 
saw  Bluebirds  over  the  arbour;  no  one  being  at  home  I  placed  a 
ladder,  took  the  hammer  and  some  nails  and  went  to  put  the 
box  in  its  accustomed  place.  They  had  entered  it,  built,  and 
three  eggs  had  been  laid  all  of  which  were  broken  when  I,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  tried  to  fix  the  box  for  them.  So 
it  continued,  always  the  Bluebirds  coming,  seldom  bringing 
off  a  brood. 

The  past  season  the  Deacon  took  the  matter  in  hand.  He 
built  three  boxes,  from  upright  hollow  limbs,  placing  them  high 
on  slender  poles  at  the  back  of  the  orchard  adjoining  the  meadow. 
Each  box  had  a  Bluebird  nest,  each  brought  off  a  brood.  I  think 
he  could  fill  a  dozen  the  coming  spring,  for  the  young  have  re- 
mained around  the  premises  and  no  doubt  will  return.  Their 
notes  are  carried  down  on  every  breeze,  while  they  trail  blue 
streaks  beside  the  car  each  time  we  drive  out  the  lane.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  having  too  many  as  they  are  splendid  insect- 
and  worm-exterminators,  taking  some  seed  also;  there  is  no  love- 
lier bird  on  wing,  and  no  more  loved  note  of  spring  music. 

They  prefer  to  nest  in  a  natural  hollow  limb,  rather  slender; 
they  both  carry  material,  the  female  as  always  shaping  and 
building  around  her  own  breast  the  grass,  weed-stalks  and  hair 
lining  both  carry.  The  eggs  seem  large  for  the  size  of  the  bird, 
being  of  a  delicate  whitish-blue,  none  that  I  ever  saw  showing  a 
trace  of  mottling.  Owing  to  the  concealed  nests,  the  only  way 
to  picture  them  is  to  fashion  a  house  with  a  removable  roof  or 
cut  a  section  from  the  side  of  a  hollow  tree  they  have  built  in, 
and  when  the  picture  is  made,  use  screws  in  closing  the  opening. 
Nailing  might  jar  the  eggs. 

The  young  have  grayish-blue  backs  and  full  breasts  strongly 
mottled  with  white  and  grayish-russet.  In  feeding,  the  father  is 

117 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

more  active  than  the  mother.  At  one  nest  on  which  I  worked  in 
fine  light  and  comfortable  location,  the  male  came  four  times  to 
the  female's  once,  yet  he  seemed  more  timid  before  the  camera 
than  she.  They  always  brought  the  bugs  and  worms,  the  latter 
preferably,  and  fed  them  direct  to  the  young,  emptying  a  cloaca 
at  each  trip;  lovable,  delightful  birds  with  which  to  fellowship. 
The  coming  season  I  shall  put  up  a  dozen  boxes,  even  more, 
scattered  all  the  way  around  the  orchard,  where  Bluebirds'  work 
with  small  caterpillars  is  as  good  an  economic  proposition  as 
their  colour  and  song  is  from  an  artistic  standpoint;  although 
I  do  not  uphold  the  song  as  much  of  a  musical  performance,  yet 
I  love  it,  possibly  because  it  means  spring  has  come. 

Examine  these  studies  of  grown  birds  and  young  closely, 
and  see  if  you  do  not  agree  with  me  that  these  are  serious  birds; 
tender  and  gentle,  I  grant,  but  taking  the  business  of  life  as 
heavy  responsibility.  In  long  and  uncounted  hours  of  watching 
around  their  nests,  these  are  almost  the  only  birds  I  never  have 
seen  play.  The  male  does  not  pretend  he  is  going  to  pick  his 
mate,  and  then  not  do  it,  or  indulge  in  love  taps.  She  does  not 
pay  the  slightest  attention  to  him  or  offer  him  a  caress  either  in 
jest  or  reality. 

Once  I  saw  a  male  depart  enough  from  the  even  tenor  of 
his  ways  to  exhibit  temper.  He  came  early  and  strongly  ap- 
proved of  a  box  I  had  ready,  where  I  could  plainly  see  it  from  a 
window.  Several  days  later  the  Deacon  and  I  happened  to  be 
watching  together  when  he  conducted  her  to  the  flat,  and  dis- 
coursed volubly;  they  are  extremely  voluble  birds,  on  its  every 
merit.  She  was  not  even  politely  interested.  He  urged  her  to 
enter,  going  in  and  coming  out  repeatedly  to  show  her  it  was  all 
right,  all  the  time  talking  a  blue  streak,  flying  one  also;  but  no 
response.  Then  he  went  to  the  ground  and  gathered  a  big  beak- 
ful  of  nest  material.  As  he  reached  the  entrance  with  it,  he 

118 


THE  BLUEBIRD 

glanced  where  she  had  been  sitting  in  time  to  see  her  indifferently 
flying  away.  He  swore  undeniably,  jerking  his  head  until  the 
material  he  carried  scattered  a  yard  as  he  angrily  threw  it  down. 
He  sat  looking  after  her  for  some  time,  chirping  forcefully,  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  bird  shrug,  and  slowly  followed.  I 
think  a  Goldfinch  has  more  pure  fun  out  of  life  in  one  hour  than  a 
Bluebird  has  in  a  lifetime.  But  a  Goldfinch  comes  late,  nests 
once,  and  is  almost  never  molested,  being  the  dainty  idol  of 
birdland.  The  Bluebirds  have  arrived  at  the  Cabin  in  Febru- 
ary. They  breast  cold,  ice  and  storm,  spring  gale  and  down- 
pour, frequently  lose  their  nests  and  young,  and  are  often  engaged 
in  bringing  up  two  and  even  three  broods  to  the  season,  so  that 
my  contention  that  they  are  serious  birds  is  well  founded,  even 
admitting  their  garrulousness,  while  the  minor  strain  in  their 
song  may  be  the  result  of  these  very  things. 


YOUNG   BLUEBIRD 


'So  the  Bluebirds  have  contracted,  have  they,  for  a  house: 
And  a  nest  is  under  way  for  little  Mr.  Wren?" 

'Hush,  dear,  hush!     Be  quiet,  dear!  quiet  as  a  mouse. 
These  are  weighty  secrets  and  we  must  whisper  them." 

— Susan  Coolridge. 


120 


CHAPTER  X 

Black  Vulture:     Cathar'ista  Uruba 

IN    THE    LIMBERLOST 

I  AM  indebted  to  Otty  Bolds, 
who  owns  that  portion  of  the  Lim- 
berlost  selected  as  their  happy 
home  by  the  Black  Vultures,  for 
word  of  their  location.  Mr.  Bolds 
sent  a  messenger  to  tell  me  that  in 
a  big  hollow  elm  tree,  of  last  year's 
felling,  was  a  nest  containing  a  bird 
baby  as  big  as  a  Gosling,  but  white 
as  snow,  and  beside  it  a  pale  blue 
egg  heavily  speckled  with  brown 
and  shaped  like  a  Hen's,  but  large 
as  a  Turkey's. 

I  knew  where  for  three  years  Turkey 
Buzzards  had  nested  in  a  hollow  tree  on  the  Wabash  River,  on 
Dan  Hawbaker's  farm,  but  their  eggs  were  cream-coloured. 
The  blue  eggs  "  sent  me  to  sea."  We  had  no  native  bird  that  laid 
the  egg  described.  If  the  description  were  at  all  correct,  it  could 
only  mean  something  unusual,  and  strays  in  ornithology  are  ex- 
tremely interesting. 

On  hearing  of  a  bird  that  is  new  to  me  I  think  of  Pliny's  classi- 
fication of  species;  "those  that  have  hooked  tallons,  as  Hawkes; 
or  long  round  claws,  as  Hennes;  or  else  they  be  broad,  flat  and 

123 


THE  BLACK  VULTURE  S  FRONT 
DOOR 

This  was  bewildering. 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

whole-footed,  as  Geese,"  wondering  in  which  class  the  bird  can  be 
placed.  I  was  all  eagerness  to  see  these  birds,  but  hesitated,  not 
because  of  doubts  that  I  would  go  and  make  studies  of  them 
eventually,  but  because  it  required  thinking  as  to  how  it  could  be 
accomplished.  The  Limberlost,  at  that  time,  was  my  one  spot 
of  forbidden  territory.  A  rash  promise  had  been  made  never  to 
go  there,  but  this  sounded  too  alluring.  I  immediately  sought 
the  Deacon. 

"I  want  to  take  back  my  promise  not  to  go  to  the  Limberlost/' 
I  said. 

"Can't  release  you,"  he  answered. 

We  do  not  live  long  with  people  in  this  world  until  wre  discover 
their  weak  spots.  The  Deacon's  is  relics,  specimens  and  curios — 
first  cousin  to  natural  history. 

"What  a  pity!"  I  murmured  meditatively.  "This  is  the 
only  opportunity  I  ever  have  had  to  reproduce  a  white  baby  as 
large  as  a  Gosling,  with  a  big  speckled  blue  egg  beside  it,  and  of 
course  I'll  never  have  another." 

"What's  that!"  cried  the  Deacon. 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  tell  what  it  is,  if  I  must  not  go  and 
see?"  I  countered. 

"When  did  you  want  to  go?"  he  questioned. 

I  thought  of  the  old  adage  about  striking  the  hot  iron  and 
answered  promptly :  "This  minute ! " 

"But  I  can't  go  now,"  said  the  Deacon. 

"Then  the  blue  egg  will  hatch,  so  I  won't  get  a  picture  of  it 
beside  the  white  baby.  I  am  reliably  informed  that  it  has  large 
dark  speckles  on  it— the  egg,  not  the  baby.  Mr.  Bolds  sent  a 
man  to  tell  me." 

"Umph!"  he  muttered  starting  toward  the  stable. 

My  soul  was  joyful  as  I  went  to  pack  my  paraphernalia. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  swamp-studies  that  is,  in 


LITTLE   CHICKEN 

"From  Little  Chicken,  before  he  stood  erect  to  walk,  I  secured 
this  study,  which  covers  every  possible  natural  history  point, 
even  the  tongue" 


BLACK  VULTURE 

all  probability,  without  an  equal  in  natural  history  or  photog- 
raphy. The  Limberlost  at  that  time  was  dangerous.  It  had  not 
been  shorn,  branded  and  tamed.  There  were  excellent  reasons 
why  I  should  not  go  there.  Most  of  it  was  impenetrable.  There 
had  been  one  or  two  roads  cut  by  expert  lumbermen,  who  had 
located  valuable  trees;  a  very  little  timber  had  been  taken  out. 
No  one  knew  when  tree-hunters  were  there,  while  always  it  had 
been  a  rendezvous  for  outlaws  and  cutthroats  in  hiding.  The 
swamp  was  named  for  a  man  who  became  lost  in  its  fastnesses 
and  wandered  around,  failing  to  find  a  way  out  until  he  died  of 
starvation.  In.  its  physical  aspect  it  was  steaming,  fetid, 
treacherous  swamp  and  quagmire,  filled  with  every  danger 
common  to  the  central  states. 

A  few  oil-wells  had  been  drilled  near  the  head  of  the  swamp. 
It  was  over  a  road,  cut  to  one  of  these,  that  we  were  to  travel  as 
far  as  a  certain  well.  After  that  the  way  led  north  a  quarter  of 
a  mile,  then  straight  east,  until  we  came  to  the  prostrate  trunk 
of  a  giant  elm,  with  a  hollow  five  feet  in  diameter.  That  sounds 
easy,  but  it  was  not.  In  the  beginning  I  had  to  pay  a  tenant  a 
dollar  for  the  privilege  of  driving  over  the  road  the  oil  and  lumber- 
men used.  A  rod  inside  the  swamp  the  carriage  wheels  on  one 
side  mired  to  the  hub.  Another  rod,  I  took  the  camera  intended 
for  use  in  my  lap,  shielding  it  with  my  arms.  Every  few  yards, 
I  expected  the  light  carriage  we  drove  to  be  twisted  to  pieces.  We 
left  it  at  the  oil-well,  starting  on  foot  with  an  ax,  hatchet  and  two 
revolvers,  to  find  the  tree. 

The  Deacon  wore  high,  heavy  leather  boots,  while  I  wore 
waist-high  rubber  waders.  We  had  to  cut  our  way  before  us,  as 
the  felled  tree  had  been  hollow,  not  worth  taking  out,  so  no  road 
had  been  made  to  it.  For  two  hours  we  searched  for  that  log. 
The  time  was  late  June;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring  in 
the  swamp;  there  were  steaming,  fetid  pools  everywhere,  swarms 

127 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

of  flies,  gnats,  mosquitoes,  and  poisonous  insects,  masses  of 
poisonous  vines,  while  at  every  step  not  only  the  ground,  but  the 
bushes,  had  to  be  watched  for  rattlesnakes.  The  muck  wras  so 
spongy  we  sank  ankle-deep,  branches  scratched  or  tore  at  us  while 
logs  we  thought  were  solid  let  us  down  knee-deep. 

An  observer  readily  could  have  seen  that  the  Deacon  had  his 
cognomen  by  contraries.  His  face  was  crimson,  his  wet  clothing 
plastered  to  his  shoulders.  He  smoked  one  cigar  after  another 
to  drive  the  clouds  of  insects  from  his  head  and  neck.  The  por- 
tion of  my  body  covered  by  rubber  was  in  a  Turkish  bath,  while 
the  remainder  was  bitten  until  I  was  lumpy  as  a  beaded  pin- 
cushion, but  every  breath  was  a  prayer  that  the  Deacon  woidd 
not  lose  his  patience  or  give  up.  And  he  did  not!  Of  course  we 
had  to  find  it  after  a  while,  when  we  searched  like  that. 

I  was  glad  that  it  was  the  Deacon  who  first  sighted  the  loca- 
tion. He  would  be  more  interested  in  it  if  he  did.  When  we 
reached  the  tree,  a  big  black  bird  was  brooding.  We  held  a 
council.  I  must  have  the  baby  while  it  was  a  tiny  baby  and  the 
blue  egg  if  possible.  A  camera  was  set  up  and  focussed  on  the 
mouth  of  the  log.  The  Deacon  plunged  into  the  swamp  and 
started  back  beside  the  trunk,  tapping  it  gently  to  drive  out  the 
bird.  She  was  to  be  snapped  as  she  emerged. 

The  light  was  bad,  but  the  experiment  was  worth  a  plate. 
We  did  not  dare  risk  frightening  the  bird  by  doing  any  clearing 
while  she  was  brooding.  These  matters  must  be  handled  deli- 
cately and  with  common  sense.  To  cut  down  a  tree  with  her 
watching  us,  in  all  probability  meant  to  frighten  her  into  creeping 
to  the  farthermost  recesses  of  the  log,  where  she  might  refuse  to 
come  out  for  hours.  Then  for  the  Deacon  to  enter  to  bring  out 
the  baby  while  she  was  there  would  mean  to  give  her  a  fright 
from  which  she  would  never  recover;  one  that  might  result  in  her 
deserting  the  nest.  She  must  be  coaxed  out,  before  any  clearing 

128 


THREE-FOURTHS    GROWN 

"No  actor  could  surpass  him  in  poses' 


BLACK  VULTURE 

to  throw  light  on  the  opening  was  done.  I  was  watching  the  log, 
my  shaking  fingers  grasping  the  bulb.  I  had  depended  on  her 
walking  to  the  opening,  then  flying  from  there.  She  came  out 
on  wing,  with  a  rush.  My  shutter  was  set  too  slow  for  flight. 
There  was  only  an  indistinct  wave  across  my  plate. 

Then  the  Deacon  entered  the  log,  creeping  its  length,  to  carry 
out  the  baby  and  the  egg  in  his  hat,  which  we  previously  had 
lined  with  leaves.  The  odour  was  so  unbearable  we  could  work 
close  the  log  only  by  dipping  our  handkerchiefs  in  disinfectant, 
then  binding  them  over  our  mouths  and  nostrils.  The  Deacon 
said  there  was  not  a  trace  of  nest.  The  baby  and  the  egg  were  in 
a  small  hollow  in  the  decayed,  yellow  elm  fiber. 

The  baby  was  cunning  as  possible,  white  and  soft  as  a  powder- 
puff.  He  had  a  little,  quaint,  leathery,  black  old  face.  The 
unhatched  egg  was  beautiful,  but  too  light  weight  to  contain  a 
young  bird  ready  to  pip  the  shell.  We  at  once  named  the  baby 
"Little  Chicken,"  after  Pharaoh's  Chickens  of  old.  The  Deacon 
placed  him  in  the  mouth  of  the  log,  exactly  as  he  found  him, 
while  I  cut  away  vines  to  make  a  footing.  Then  we  cut  down 
several  trees  and  bushes  to  secure  a  good  light  on  the  mouth  of  the 
log.  A  study  was  made  of  the  location,  two  of  Little  Chicken 
and  the  egg,  finally  one  of  the  baby  alone. 

Then  the  Deacon  crept  back  into  the  log  to  replace  the  baby 
and  the  egg,  although  we  knew  it  would  not  hatch.  The  fol- 
lowing morning  the  mother  broke  it  and  ate  the  contents. 

The  birds  were  Black  Vultures,  the  pioneers  of  their  kind  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  The  female  was  a  brilliant  young  bird, 
with  fresh  face  and  feet.  The  male  was  much  larger  than  his 
mate,  duller  of  colouring,  with  a  wrinkled  old  face,  while  his  feet 
and  legs  were  encrusted  with  a  lime-coloured  growth  at  which  he 
bit  and  worked. 

When  we  left  the  swamp  we  were  so  overheated  that  we 

131 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

chilled  until  we  were  compelled  to  wrap  ourselves  in  the  side 
curtains  and  lap-robe  of  the  carriage,  lower  the  top  so  that  we  sat 
in  the  sun  of  a  hot  June  day,  and  to  drive  at  a  slow  walk.  The 
Deacon  turned  to  me  with  the  first  word  he  had  uttered,  save  to 
ask  what  I  wanted  done  next,  and  inquired:  "Do  you  think 
that  paid?" 

Never  in  all  my  life  had  I  been  so  uncomfortable,  so  unspeak- 
ably miserable.  I  was  chilling  until  I  shook  under  my  leather 
covering,  so  pretended  not  to  hear  him.  The  following  morn- 
ing I  produced  my  bunch  of  proofs. 

"Do  you  think  it  paid?"  I  asked. 

The  Deacon  examined  the  proofs  several  times,  finally  select- 
ing the  best  one  of  Little  Chicken  and  the  egg. 

"That  more  than  pays,"  he  said  succinctly.  "When  are  we 
going  again?" 

"I  want  to  go  every  day  to  feed  Little  Chicken  some  liver  or 
sweetbreads  and  become  acquainted  with  his  parents.  I  want  to 
make  a  study  of  him  every  three  days;  as  many  as  I  can  of  the 
old  ones,"  I  answered. 

"All  right!"  said  the  Deacon. 

"But  you  can't  spare  all  that  time,"  I  cried  in  astonishment. 

"I  must,"  said  the  Deacon.  "No  one  less  careful  of  you 
than  I  am  ever  shall  take  you  to  the  Limberlost." 

So  for  weeks,  until  October,  in  fact,  we  watched  over  that 
baby  and  courted  his  parents.  We  found  in  our  woods  a  dead 
calf  which  we  carried  into  the  swamp,  placing  it  conveniently 
for  the  old  ones  and  for  me  to  take  pictures  of  them.  When 
Little  Chicken  was  a  few  weeks  old,  without  our  knowledge  lum- 
bermen removed  the  log  for  a  watering- trough,  but  sent  me  word 
where  they  had  placed  the  baby.  His  parents  were  very  in- 
different about  feeding  him  in  his  new  location  so  I  had  to  visit 
him  daily.  Once  when  I  was  called  from  town  for  several  days 

132 


BLACK   VULTURE 

"When  he  was  almost  full-grown  and  only  a  trace  of  down  showed   around   his 
ears,  he  would  follow  me  across  the  swamp" 


BLACK  VULTURE 

he  was  brought  to  the  Cabin,  in  the  carriage.  A  woman  was  hired 
to  feed  him  until  my  return,  when  he  was  taken  back  to  the 
swamp.  There  is  no  way  of  adequately  describing  what  .we 
endured  for  that  series  of  pictures. 

The  birds  were  friendly,  the  male  especially,  and  responded 
beautifully  to  our  advances.  From  Little  Chicken  just  before  he 
stood  to  walk,  I  secured  the  study  here  given,  which  covers  every 
natural  history  point  possible  to  one  photograph,  even  the  tongue. 
The  baby  was  obliging  about  posing,  while  in  two  weeks  he  an- 
swered to  his  name  and  took  food  from  my  hand  as  readily  as 
from  his  mother.  When  he  was  almost  full-grown  with  only 
a  trace  of  down  showing  around  his  ears,  he  would  follow  me 
across  the  swamp  with  his  queer  rocking  walk,  humping  his  shoul- 
ders and  ducking  his  head;  looking  so  uncanny  in  that  dark  weird 
place,  he  made  me  think  of  witches  and  goblins. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  late  in  October.  He  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  edge  of  the  Limberlost,  so  I  turned  and  made  this 
picture,  used  as  a  tailpiece,  when  his  wings  were  raised  for  a 
sweep  that  carried  him  skyward  to  his  parents.  That  season 
the  Limberlost  yielded  me  the  only  complete  series  of  Vulture 
studies  ever  made,  dozens  of  studies  of  other  birds,  material  for  the 
book  "  Freckles,"  more  natural  history  stuff  than  could  be  put  in-' 
to  several  big  volumes,  many  rare  specimens  and  much  priceless 
experience  in  swamp  work,  for  all  of  which  I  acknowledge  my  in- 
debtedness to  Mr.  Holds,  to  Little  Chicken,  and  to  the  Deacon. 

The  following  season,  having  become  familiar  with  the  Swamp 
and  therefore  indifferent  to  its  annoyances  and  dangers,  I  pre- 
pared myself  suitably  to  meet  them,  and  went  as  often  as  I  chose. 
I  hoped  this  pair  of  Vultures  would  return,  and  I  am  very  sure 
they  did;  but  finding  the  only  favourable  nesting  location  gone, 
they  moved  nearly  a  mile  away,  to  our  farm,  where  they 
were  investigating  a  hollow  log,  when  our  farmer,  not  kimu- 

135 


FRIENDS   IN  FEATHERS 

ing  what  they  were,  mistook  them  for  Hawks,  and  tried  to  shoot 
them. 

They  speedily  left.  The  next  I  heard  of  them  a  man  living 
five  miles  east  of  us  sent  me  word  there  was  a  pair  of  big  birds 
nesting  in  a  hollow  tree  in  his  woods,  so  I  went  to  pay  them  a 
visit.  Having  been  unmolested,  they  had  a  fine  pair  of  young, 
almost  three  weeks  of  age,  when  I  arrived.  The  female  was  the 
same  small,  sleek  bird ;  not  so  timid  as  she  had  been  the  previous 
summer.  The  male  was  the  same  big,  old,  scale-encrusted  fellow; 
exactly  as  I  remembered  him,  so  that  I  am  sure  as  I  ever  get  of 
anything  I  cannot  prove,  that  these  were  Freckles'  Chickens  of 
the  Limberlost.  I  even  enjoyed  the  hope  that  they  knew  me,  the 
small  black  horse,  and  the  load  of  cameras;  but  very  probably  that 
was  a  case  where  the  "wish  was  father  to  the  thought." 


HIS    WINGS   WERE  RAISED  FOR  THE 

FLIGHT  THAT  FIRST  CARRIED  HIM 

SKYWARD  TO   HIS   PARENTS 

136 


WHEN   FATHER   ROBIN   REGURGITATES 


Taken   with    camera    on    library    table,    on    February     twenty-seventh,    through 

heavy  plate  glass.     Robin  on  the  bench  on  veranda,  snow  six 

inches  deep  on  the  ground 


CHAPTER  XI 

Robin:  Planesticus  Migratorus 

IN   THE   DOORYARD 

I  LEARNED  to  love  the  Robin,  when  as  a  child,  I  sat  on  my 
father's  knee  while  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  russet-breasted  bird, 
singing  from  the  top  of  a  cherry-tree  during  a  spring  shower,  and 
taught  me  to  mark  the  accent,  to  catch  the  exquisite  inflection 
of  tone  as  the  happy  bird  sang:  "Cheer  up,  dearie!  Cheer  up, 
dearie !  Cheer  up !  Cheer ! ' ' 

He  told  me  the  story  of  the  Robin  that  tried  to  minister  to 
the  dying  Saviour  on  the  cross  staining  its  breast  with  sacred 
blood;  of  how  Christ  blessed  it  and  commissioned  it  ever  to  be 
the  friend  of  mankind,  always  to  sing  to  him  of  good  cheer;  of 

139 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

how  its  eggs  are  blue-green  like  the  sky  above  the  sea,  and 
how  to  this  day  the  Robin  is  man's  good  friend  among  the  birds, 
because  he  would  scarcely  have  fruit  crops  at  all,  were  it  not  for 
the  insects  the  bird  destroys.  During  the  story  my  eyes  were 
watching  the  dark  gray  bird  with  its  bright  breast,  singing 
through  the  rain  the  words  I  could  plainly  distinguish:  "Cheer 
up,  dearie!" 

We  were  taught  that  a  blessing  came  to  any  home  with  the 
Robins  so  every  inducement  was  extended  to  them  to  build 
with  us.  The  first  year  in  a  home  of  my  own  there  were  no  Robins ; 
by  the  second  my  overtures  were  accepted.  Since,  every  summer 
they  are  sure  to  build  in  the  orchard,  often  in  the  vines  on  the 
veranda  and  several  times  where  the  logs  cross  at  a  corner  under 
a  porch  they  have  set  up  housekeeping. 

Always  we  have  extended  to  them  every  protection  and  as- 
sistance in  our  power  to  give  to  a  bird.  The  past  year  we  had  a 
Robin  in  the  wistaria  vines  on  the  veranda.  The  birds  in  feeding 
perched  on  the  logs  not  a  yard  from  me  or  flew  back  and  forth 
across  me  as  I  lay  in  a  hammock  within  a  few  feet  of  them.  An- 
other pair  will  find  their  last  year's  nest  in  the  mulberry  west  of 
the  Cabin,  only  needing  relining  when  spring  comes  again,  while  a 
third  can  return  to  the  elm  by  the  back  porch. 

But  it  is  about  Robins  of  a  few  years  ago  which  I  tell,  as  these 
pictures  are  of  them.  One  summer  nine  years  past  a  pair  of 
young  Robins  established  themselves  in  a  plum-tree  close  the 
back  door.  They  had  been  hatched  the  previous  summer,  so 
were  shy  and  nervous  as  birds  in  their  first  brooding  often  are. 
They  attracted  my  attention  by  their  timidity.  I  cautioned 
my  household  to  be  especially  careful  in  no  way  to  alarm  them. 
I  noticed  the  male,  bird  at  the  well  one  day  drinking  water  from 
the  boards. 

Soon  after  he  left  I  set  out  a  dark,  shallow  baking-pan,  filled 

140 


ROBIN 

it  with  water  and  instructed  every  one  going  there  to  see  that  it 
was  freshly  filled.  The  table  crumbs  were  scattered  by  it  so 
in  a  few  days  both  birds  drank  and  bathed  there  and  came  regu- 
larly for  food.  They  did  like  bread  and  milk  and  hard-boiled 
egg.  It  was  while  they  were  bathing  and  feeding  that  I  espe- 
cially noticed  the  male.  He  was  the  biggest,  brightest,  most  alert 
and  knowing-looking  Robin  I  had  ever  seen,  while  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to  them  almost  every  summer  of  my  life.  Immediately 
apples  and  fruit  were  added  to  his  diet,  suet  and  scraped  beef- 
steak, grubs  spaded  up  in  the  garden  and  anything  I  thought  him 
likely  to  eat  that  was  not  salty.  It  was  amazing  the  way  that 
bird  grew,  and  he  carried  food  to  his  mate  until  she  was  above 
the  average  Robin's  size. 

He  not  only  developed  in  body,  but  he  grew  strong  in  every 
way,  for  no  other  Robin  could  equal  his  vocal  powers.  His  song 
was  the  same  old  song  of  cheer,  but  there  was  a  depth  of  volume, 
a  mellowness  of  note,  a  perfection  of  accent  that  surpassed  other 
performers  of  orchard  and  wood.  He  seemed  to  know  it.  He 
would  perch  on  a  peach-tree  near  the  plum  and  sing  his  opening 
strain.  Then  he  would  pause  as  if  considering  it.  Then  he 
would  repeat  it  and  rise  a  little  louder,  fall  a  shade  deeper,  and 
cling  to  his  notes  until  he  came  to  the  final,  always  abrupt.  He 
would  think  it  over  again,  then  begin  anew  and  when  he  had  re- 
peated his  strain  five  or  six  times  he  was  in  a  frenzy  of  ecstasy 
with  his  own  performance,  stretching  to  full  height,  his  throat 
swollen,  his  eyes  gleaming,  every  muscle  tense,  so  that  in  all  bird- 
land  there  was  but  a  faint  breath  of  harmony  to  surpass  him. 
When  the  rain  fell,  as  if  he  knew  it  a  blessing,  a  thing  for  which  to 
be  thankful,  with  the  drops  dripping  from  his  gray  coat  he  lifted 
his  golden  throat  and  sang  and  sang  incomparably. 

In  only  a  short  time  he  learned  that  when  the  pump  was  used 
the  water  would  be  fresh  and  cool;  so  when  one  started  toward  it 

141 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

he  went  along  and  perching  on  a  bush  close  by  awaited  his  treat. 
Then  he  learned  that  when  the  master  of  the  house  came,  soon 
after  would  appear  the  table  scraps,  so  he  went  to  meet  him  greet- 
ing his  appearance  with  an  alert:  "Kip,  kip,  kip!  Cut,  cut, 
cut!"  Neither  was  he  long  in  discovering  that  when  I  walked 
through  the  orchard  and  pottered  among  the  plants  and  flowers 
he  always  got  a  piece  of  ripe  apple,  fresh  fruit,  berries  or  a  grub  or 
worm;  so  he  went  with  me  and  talked  to  me  all  the  way,  flying 
down  for  what  I  gathered  for  him.  They  raised  two  broods  on 
the  premises  and  when  family  cares  were  over  and  the  remainder 
of  the  Robins  and  Bluebirds  betook  themselves  to  the  deep  wood 
for  vacation  and  moulting,  they  went  along,  but  with  the  differ- 
ence that  every  day,  sometimes  several  times  a  day,  they  came 
winging  in  from  the  forest  to  eat  and  bathe  at  the  well.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  they  were  with  us  twro  weeks  after  all  other 
Robins  had  migrated  in  the  fall. 

During  the  winter  we  wondered  about  them,  speculating  on 
whether  they  would  return,  and  if  we  should  know  them.  We 
were  uneasy,  for  we  had  laid  the  foundations  of  a  new  home. 
There  would  be  workmen  and  noise  all  summer,  so  I  sadly  prophe- 
sied that  we  should  lose  our  birds  and  have  to  begin  all  over 
again.  Late  in  March  the  Deacon  called  me,  and  as  I  stepped 
to  the  back  door,  before  he  could  speak  I  saw  a  Robin  at  the  well, 
our  big  bright  bird  beyond  all  question.  We  hurried  to  put  out 
his  waterpan  and  food;  so  while  the  foundations  of  our  home 
were  settling,  he  laid  those  of  his  in  the  plum-tree  again. 

But  the  noise  of  the  carpenters  within  a  few  feet  of  him  drove 
him  away;  so  he  went  down  in  the  orchard,  and  set  up  house- 
keeping on  an  apple  branch  that  did  not  seem  to  me  much  farther 
from  the  building.  His  music  was  even  finer  in  quality,  while 
his  disposition  was  friendlier  than  the  year  before.  All  the 
workmen  around  the  cabin  were  under  special  instructions  cori- 

142 


ROBIN 

cerning  him.  Just  as  I  thought  his  brood  would  come  off  safely, 
a  new  man  was  put  on  the  gang.  I  did  not  notice  his  arrival 
from  the  house  in  which  we  lived  on  the  premises,  but  seeing 
that  they  were  running  a  veranda  on  the  new  house  close 
the  Robin's  tree  I  hurried  out  for  his  protection  only  to  meet 
him  coming  after  me,  screaming  frantically,  "Kip,  kip,  kip!"  and 
uttering  sharp  alarm  cries. 

I  ran,  but  it  was  too  late.  His  branch  had  brushed  across 
the  face  of  the  new  workman  as  he  set  up  a  pillar,  and  whirling, 
with  one  stroke  of  his  hatchet  he  slashed  through  a  limb  as  thick 
as  his  wrist  which  fell  to  the  ground,  tearing  off  the  nest  and  break- 
ing the  eggs.  Any  member  of  that  gang  is  qualified  to  tell 
what  I  say  and  do  when  angry.  Then  I  was  sure  we  should  lose 
our  bird,  but  he  went  to  the  front  of  the  lot  and  located  thirty 
feet  high  in  a  big  elm  coming  to  the  well  for  food  as  usual. 

That  gang  was  broken  to  birds,  however,  for  a  few  days  later 
the  foreman  came  to  the  door,  grinning  in  confusion  to  tell  me 
that  a  pair  of  Pigeons  had  built  a  nest  at  the  base  of  a  big  chim- 
ney, that  turned  and  twisted  its  way  to  completion,  carrying 
drafts  for  five  fireplaces,  and  at  a  last  turn,  where  it  cleared 
the  attic  rafters,  the  birds  had  built  and  laid  their  pair  of 
beautiful  eggs.  They  were  brooding  and  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do. 

"Let  them  alone,"  I  said.  "Don't  allow  a  man  to  touch 
them." 

"  But  we  are  going  to  shingle,"  he  protested. 

"Then  shingle!"  I  retorted.  "You  will  be  fifteen  feet  above 
the  bird." 

"But  the  siding  and  shingling  of  the  upper  walls  come  next," 
he  objected.  "  Shall  we  pen  them  in?  " 

"No,  go  on  with  your  work  as  if  they  were  not  there.  When 
the  walls  are  enclosed  there  will  be  three  window  openings,  and 

143 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

if  you  come  to  them  before  the  birds  are  gone  you  can  leave  out 
a  north  one  nearest  the  nest." 

A  day  or  two  later  one  of  the  men  told  me  a  pair  of  Wrens  was 
building  over  a  dormer  window  upstairs,  so  we  found  a  way  to 
give  them  access  to  their  nest  also,  after  the  building  was  enclosed. 
Two  families  occupied  our  new  home  before  we  did. 

The  following  season,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  February, 
I  was  amazed  to  hear  my  Robin  calling  me.  I  looked  out  to  see 
him  on  the  grape-arbour  peering  into  a  back  window.  It  was  a 
moderate  day,  bright  and  sunny,  but  there  would  come  a  heavy 
freeze  at  any  time.  It  was  five  weeks  earlier  than  any  other 
Robins  would  arrive  so  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Food  and 
water  were  hastily  set  out  and  he  ate  and  drank  as  if  very  hungry. 
By  mid-afternoon  the  clouds  gathered,  a  northern  wind  swept 
down  and  snow  began  to  fall.  Poor  Robin  did  not  know  what  to 
do  and  we  did  not  know  either.  At  last  I  saw  him  peering 
around  an  old  summer  kitchen  left  standing  on  the  back  of  the 
lot;  that  gave  me  an  idea. 

I  hurried  down,  opened  a  small  door  in  the  loft  above  the 
door  below  and  shoved  back  on  the  rafters  a  warm  box  covered 
with  an  old  coat  and  hay.  I  barely  had  it  fixed  when  the  storm 
broke  in  fury.  The  bird  went  into  the  loft.  His  droppings 
proved  the  following  morning  that  he  had  perched  in  the  box 
as  I  had  hoped.  Two  days  later  his  mate  came.  They  took 
possession  of  the  premises  and  lived  in  the  shed  loft  at  night. 
Long  before  the  snow  was  off  the  ground  they  were  pulling  last 
year's  dead  dry  grass-blades  from  underneath  it,  and  on  the  sunny 
side  of  each  little  hummock  working  to  pick  off  mud  for  plaster. 

They  located  where  the  logs  crossed  at  a  corner  over  a  back 
door  and  built  this  nest.  A  finer  piece  of  Robin  architecture 
would  be  difficult  to  find.  There  were  no  twigs  to  be  used. 
They  could  not  find  any.  All  the  material  they  had  to  draw  on 

144 


ROBIN 

was  a  very  little  mud  and  dry  grass-blades.  The  eggs  were  laid, 
Mother  Robin  was  brooding  before  the  remainder  of  her  kind 
had  arrived.  I  kept  out  a  supply  of  food,  as  there  was  none  for 
them  to  find,  and  everything  was  going  well. 

Robin  sang  his  heart  out  from  the  old  roof  and  sunny  spots 
to  the  south,  while  his  music  never  sounded  so  mellow  and  fine  as 
when  few  other  birds  were  singing.  February  might  bluster  and 
rave  and  March  empty  her  watering-pot  in  icy  showers  over  us, 
but  first  in  the  morning  and  last  at  night  we  were  cheered  by  the 
voice  of  our  loved  Robin. 

One  morning  he  came  on  the  grape-arbour  in  a  tumult  of  ex- 
citement, startling  me  by  his  alarm  cries.  I  hurried  out,  but 
could  see  nothing  to  frighten  him.  I  looked  at  the  nest,  but  his 
mate  was  not  there.  He  kept  up  his  flight  and  cries.  Then  I 
took  a  step-ladder  and  examined  the  nest.  The  eggs  were  cold, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  an  Owl  or  violence  of  any  kind. 

Then  I  started  to  the  shed,  thinking  some  harm  might  have 
befallen  her  there,  and  ran  across  a  little  heap  of  bloody  bones 
and  gray  feathers,  while  our  neighbour's  cat  slinked  away  licking 
her  chops.  On  our  premises  she  had  dined  off  a  bird  that  money 
or  time  never  could  replace.  I  do  not  care  for  cats. 

For  a  week  Robin  mourned  his  mate,  searched  and  called  for 
her  until  we  were  almost  distracted  with  him,  then  one  day  his 
song  piped  up  again,  for  the  south  had  sent  his  kind  and  he  was 
courting.  He  really  seemed  apologetic  when  he  flew  down  on  the 
lawn  with  his  second  choice  and  introduced  us.  Xo  wonder! 
She  was  a  young  thing,  she  was  bedrabbled,  while  she  was  one  of 
those  foolish,  jumpy,  nervous  birds  that  never  will  act  with  sense, 
because  they  have  none. 

If  ever  a  male  tried  to  dominate  the  choice  of  a  location  it 
was  our  Robin.  I  gave  up  long  before  he  did.  He  carried  grass- 
blades  to  the  old  location.  Oh,  dear  no!  she  never  would  enter  a 

147 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

veranda.  He  tried  the  wistaria.  Mercy !  she  would  be  killed  if 
she  went  near  it!  He  dilated  on  the  plum-tree.  Shocking!  It 
was  entirely  too  close  to  the  Cabin.  Then  he  took  every  tree  of 
the  orchard  and  the  big  forest  trees  in  turn,  carrying  grass-blades, 
and  working  industriously.  But  no!  She  was  a  deep-wood 
bird;  she  was  not  going  to  be  coaxed  into  any  such  locations. 

Sadly  he  and  I  watched  her  select  a  big  hickory  across  the 
street  and  then  begin  her  nest.  I  honestly  do  not  think  she  got 
much  help  with  it,  while  it  is  the  truth  that  Robin's  song  was  a 
failure  in  comparison  with  his  former  efforts.  The  dear  bird 
loved  us.  He  knew  his  home;  it  seemed  to  me,  even  after 
the  new  mate  was  brooding,  that  he  bewailed  his  first  love  and  his 
old  location.  He  did  his  duty  about  feeding  but  he  always  came 
to  me  to  search  for  food,  to  bathe  and  to  sing. 

The  following  year  it  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  February, 
three  weeks  to  the  day  before  the  other  Robins  arrived,  that  he 
announced  himself  at  the  well.  Again  we  hurried  to  meet  and 
welcome  him.  No  mate  was  with  him  and  none  arrived  later. 
He  was  still  growing  and  was  an  immense  fellow.  Shortly  after 
his  arrival  he  was  attracted  by  a  long-haired  white  spaniel,  a  new 
possession  of  Molly-Cotton's,  and  he  seemed  unable  to  decide 
whether  it  was  a  dog  or  cat. 

Soon  I  noticed  him  perching  on  the  back  of  an  oaken  bench 
that  stood  on  the  front  veranda,  directly  across  a  big  six-foot 
square  plate-glass  window.  I  sat  at  my  desk  a  few  feet  away 
while  he  settled  there  looking  at  me.  He  came  more  and  more 
frequently,  staying  longer  each  time.  At  last  a  heavy  snow  fell, 
covering  everything  several  inches  deep.  Then  he  adopted  the 
bench  back  and  for  an  hour  at  a  time  would  perch  there. 

Our  movements  did  not  worry  him  in  the  least  and  unless  the 
little  dog  jumped  to  the  deep  seat  of  the  window  inside  he  seldom 
took  flight  except  for  food  and  water.  One  day  he  sat  motionless 

148 


ROBIN 

so  long,  while  I  waited  for  an  idea,  that  one  other  than  that  for 
which  I  sought  came  to  me.     Why  not  take  his  picture? 

There  sat  that  blessed  bird,  now  of  four  long  years'  acquaint- 
ance, through  his  love  for  and  trust  in  us,  our  guest  three  weeks 
before  any  of  his  kind  had  come;  while  the  fence  in  front  and  the 
logs  of  the  veranda  railing  were  covered  with  three  inches  of 
snow,  the  ground  with  six.  Surely  that  was  a  picture  to  mate- 
rialize as  well  as  to  live  in  the  heart. 

I  polished  the  glass  to  the  last  degree  inside  and  out,  set  a 
camera  on  the  library  table,  then  focussed  on  the  bench  back. 
The  shutter  was  set  at  a  bulb  exposure,  the  long  hose  attached 
and  the  bulb  laid  on  my  desk,  where  time  after  time  I  made  ex- 
posures on  him.  I  had  to  work  against  strong  light,  for  there  was 
the  snow  outside,  while  his  face  and  breast  were  in  the  shadow, 
but  I  did  my  best.  I  had  thought  he  remained  motionless  much 
longer  than  he  did,  when  it  actually  came  to  counting  off  time  in 
seconds.  I  could  not  secure  as  long  an  exposure  as  I  wanted— 
he  would  turn  his  head,  ruffle  his  feathers,  or  draw  up  a  foot  to 
warm  it.  But  I  made  several  good  pictures  that  were  precious 
to  all  of  us,  for  there  was  the  window-seat  cushion  for  a  fore- 
ground, the  oak  bench  outside  the  glass  for  a  perch  and  three 
inches  of  snow  in  the  distance  on  railing  and  fence. 

And  still  he  awaited  the  coining  of  spring  and  his  kind,  while 
no  mate  came.  One  night  the  Killdeers  reached  the  Limberlost 
at  two  o'clock;  the  following  the  Larks,  then  a  few  days  later  came 
the  Robins,  so  again  our  bird  went  courting.  For  two  days  we 
missed  him,  and  were  growing  more  anxious  than  anyone  who 
has  not  had  a  like  experience  could  believe  possible;  then  he  came 
home,  and  what  a  bird  he  brought  with  him !  He  was  so  proud 
he  almost  perched  on  my  head  as  he  swept  the  length  of  the 
veranda  calling  me.  I  turned  to  welcome  him  and  there  was  his 
mate. 

149 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

She  was  almost  liis  size,  sprucely  dressed,  and  thank  heaven! 
open  to  conviction.  I  could  see  it  in  her  big,  wise  eyes,  the  alert 
poise  of  her  head  and  her  willingness  to  follow  his  lead.  Before 
the  day  was  over  she  was  helping  carry  twigs  to  the  wistaria,  and 
in  an  incredibly  short  time  she  was  brooding,  while  Robin  was 
back  on  the  bench  looking  in  the  window.  He  seemed  content 
and  happy  as  a  bird  could  be.  I  guarded  faithfully  with  him, 
no  accident  befell  the  nest,  for  its  brood  left  safely.  Then  they 
changed  to  a  hickory  in  a  small  grove  by  the  back  porch  and 
nested  again. 

They  stayed  late  that  fall,  and  the  following  spring  came 
early  as  usual  and  together.  Again  they  built  in  the  wistaria, 
using  the  old  nest  for  a  foundation,  and  again  they  brought  out  a 
full  brood.  For  a  second  nesting  they  chose  the  top  of  the  martin 
box  on  the  windmill,  but  I  think  they  were  sorry,  for  the  Sparrows 
tormented  them  constantly.  That  year  Robin  seemed  rather 
sluggish  in  his  flight,  he  sang  much  less  and  with  nothing  like  his 
first  spirit  and  intonation.  And  no  wonder!  For  five  years  the 
precious  bird  had  homed  with  us.  All  the  care  we  could  give  him 
was  freely  his  for  the  love  we  bore  him.  I  often  wondered  what 
I  would  have  seen  could  I  have  followed  him  south ;  but  however 
kind  everyone  would  be  forced  to  be  to  him,  I  always  shall  be- 
lieve he  loved  us  best  on  account  of  those  early  migrations,  often 
made  alone. 

The  following  year  we  had  swarms  of  Martins  on  the  windmill, 
Bluebirds  in  the  bird  houses,  Song  Sparrows  in  the  honeysuckle, 
and  Robins  in  three  different  trees,  but  tragedy  or  old  age  had 
done  its  work,  for  all  that  spring  we  listened  in  vain  for  the  voice 
of  our  dear  bird. 

Among  these  newcomers  one  hen  was  remarkable.  She  built 
early  in  an  apple-tree  outside  the  music-room  window.  The  tree 
had  been  struggling  with  scale  for  several  years;  that  winter  it 

150 


THE  ROBIN  THAT  SELECTED  A  DEAD  TREE,  THEN  BROODED  IN  THE  RAIN 


ROBIN 

succumbed.  The  bird  builded  in  all  confidence,  nearly  fifteen 
feet  from  the  ground,  at  the  branching  of  two  large  limbs.  Not 
one  leaf  opened  to  shelter  her.  One  of  those  early  spring  days 
she  baked  in  the  sun,  the  following  she  chilled  in  a  skift  of  snow; 
how  she  breasted  one  rain  always  has  been  a  marvel  to  me. 

The  tree  stood  outside  a  French  window  and  from  the  slope 
of  the  ground,  the  nest  came  nearly  level  with  the  face  of  a  person 
standing  inside  the  window.  The  rainfall  began  on  Monday 
morning;  from  then  until  ten  o'clock  Thursday  there  was  not 
one  daylight  hour  during  which  it  did  not  rain,  from  a  sprinkle 
heavy  enough  to  detain  the  bird  to  keep  her  nest  and  eggs  dry, 
to  a  deluge  that  forced  her  to  stick  her  beak  straight  up  and  gasp 
for  breath.  During  all  that  time  not  one  of  us  saw  that  bird 
make  a  movement  to  leave  her  nest  nor  did  the  male  bird  come 
once  to  feed  her  or  relieve  her  long  siege  of  brooding;  from  Wed- 
nesday morning  on  some  of  us  were  on  watch  almost  constantly. 

I  thought  that  the  mud  plastering  of  the  nest  would  dissolve, 
so  that  it  would  wash  away  from  under  her.  I  thought  her  eggs 
would  be  chilled  so  that  her  young  would  be  lost;  while  in  the 
heaviest  downpour  I  truly  thought  she  would  drown  on  her  nest  or 
perish  from  hunger. 

We  seriously  discussed  trying  to  wire  an  old  umbrella  over 
her  or  to  fasten  a  box  above  the  nest;  but  we  feared  that  any 
shelter  we  could  arrange  before  her  eggs  had  quickened  to  bind 
her  to  the  nest,  would  drive  her  from  it;  so  we  watched,  marvelled 
and  lamented,  but  did  nothing.  At  ten  o'clock  Thursday  the 
rain  stopped,  the  clouds  scattered,  then  the  sun  shone.  Riley 
wrote  of  a  bumblebee  so  laden  with  sweets  that  it  "staggered  "as 
it  flew.  From  long  continuance  in  the  same  position  during  all 
those  hours  of  cold  drenching,  and  hunger,  our  Robin  staggered 
when  she  finally  arose  from  her  nest,  shook  her  wet  wings,  uttered 
the  Robin  tribal  call,  and  attempted  flight.  I  was  watching,  so  I 

153 


FRIEXDS  IX  FEATHERS 

saw  her  miss  the  branch  of  a  nearby  plum-tree,  where  there  was 
good  foraging,  and  fall  among  the  leaves  below.  There  she  rested 
for  a  short  time,  then  reached  the  branch  she  had  first  started 
toward.  From  there  she  wavered  to  earth  to  feast  on  angle 
worms  until  my  next  fear  for  her  was  that  she  would  burst. 
Then  her  mate  came  to  her  and  they  talked  it  over.  He  went 
to  inspect  the  nest  but  did  not  enter  it.  Soon  the  mother 
bird  began  brooding  again.  She  left  the  nest  more  fre- 
quently than  usual  that  day;  the  following  she  seemed  quite 
recovered  from  her  rough  experience.  Three  of  the  eggs  hatched, 
so  that  only  one  bird  was  lost,  while  I  cannot  prove  that  it  was 
on  account  of  the  storm. 

That  mother  Robin  stands  monumental  to  me,  as  the  most 
heroic  of  all  my  feathered  friends;  because  I  am  convinced  that 
she  brooded  without  once  leaving  her  nest  through  cold  April 
downpour,  from  Sunday  night  until  ten  o'clock  Thursday;  quite, 
if  not  more  than  ninety-four  hours.  Human  mothers  are  not  the 
only  ones  who  sacrifice  personal  comfort  for  their  young. 

Another  dearly  loved  pair  of  Robins  built  later  in  a  mulberry 
beside  the  well.  Each  summer  this  tree  threw  out  a  mass  of 
tender  shoots,  each  winter  froze  them,  each  spring  the  gardener 
cut  them  back  to  live  wood.  The  mass  of  stubs  made  most  in- 
viting nest  locations  for  the  birds,  so  attractive  that  a  pair  of  Black- 
birds also  elected  to  settle  in  that  particular  tree.  The  Robins 
had  begun  building  first,  I  assisting  with  rags,  twine,  tow  and 
cotton  cord.  This  made  building  so  easy  for  Mother  Robin,  that 
she  finished  and  was  brooding  before  the  Blackbirds,  scorning  my 
help,  had  a  good  foundation.  That  left  Father  Robin  all  his  time, 
which  he  employed  in  harassing  the  Blackbirds,  until  they  aban- 
doned the  location  and  built  among  the  rcses  on  the  back  wall  of 
the  Cabin. 

From  my  material  the  Robins  built  a  big,  showy  nest,  the 

154 


ROBIN 

gaudiness  of  which  invited  every  marauder  of  air  to  attack  it; 
but  being  close  the  well  and  kitchen  door,  we  gave  it  all  the  pro- 
tection we  could.  These  birds  grew  so  accustomed  to  us  and  so 
very  friendly  that  they  monopolized  not  only  the  mulberry,  but 
also  the  near-by  catalpa,  birch  and  sycamore.  By  the  time  the 
young  arrived  and  were  able  to  lift  their  heads  above  the  rim  of 
the  nest,  the  elders  paid  so  little  attention  to  me  that  I  pictured 
them  repeatedly  in  almost  every  attitude  assumed  in  rearing  their 
young. 


READY  FOR  FIRST  MIGRATION 


15.5 


'See  yon  robin  on  the  spray; 

Look  ye  how  his  tiny  form 
Swells,  as  when  his  merry  lay 

Gushes  forth  amid  the  storm. 

Thank  him  for  his  lesson's  sake, 
Thank  God's  gentle  minstrel  there, 

Who,  when  storms  make  others  quake, 
Sings  of  days  that  brighter  were." 
— Weir. 


156 


1 


A   DOUBLE   MARTIN   HOUSE 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  Purple  Martin:     Progne  Subis 


IN    THE   AIR 

FOR  these  I  need  make  no  per- 
sonal search,  nor  tax  the  kindness 
of  friends.  The  Purple  Martins 
come  to  us.  Every  year  at  migra- 
tion time  they  sweep  up  from  the 
South  and  claim  their  preempted 
location  on  the  windmill,  or  in  a  small 
bird-house  east  of  the  Cabin,  on  the 
stump  of  a  dead  wild  cherry.  Some- 
times our  Wrens  leave  us.  Some- 
times our  Song  Sparrows  cross 
the  line  and  build  in  our  neigh- 
bour's pear-tree.  The  Orioles  may 
locate  with  us  or  they  may  not. 
The  English  Sparrows  drive  away 
the  Flycatchers,  which  nest  so  hgh 
in  the  big  elm  we  can  not  protect 
them.  But  three  standbys  never 
fail  us:  always  we  have  Martins, 
Bluebirds  and  Robins. 

Martin  headquarters  are  on  the 
windmill,  in  a  big  box  arranged  for 
eight  families  and  placed  on  the 
north  side  of  the  mill  under  the 
shelter  of  a  small  platform,  above 
which  swings  the  wheel.  This 
159 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

makes  a  splendid  location  for  the  birds,  sheltered  from  sun  and 
wind.  But  it  is  almost  impossible  to  secure  pictures  of  it,  as 
the  camera  must  always  face  the  strong  light  of  the  east,  south 
and  west,  while  the  mill  is  so  high  that  I  have  as  yet  devised  no 
way  to  reach  a  level  with  the  Martin  box.  So  every  day  through 
summer  the  most  wonderful  groupings  of  Martins,  circling  the 
mill  or  perching  over  the  wheel  and  fan,  tempt  me  but  can  not 
be  obtained. 

At  the  house  on  the  wild  cherry  stump  I  have  better  luck. 
It  is  not  over  twenty  feet  high,  while  a  wire  brace  running  from 
one  telephone  pole  to  another  passes  very  close.  From  the  top 
of  a  twenty -foot  step-ladder  a  camera  is  level  with  the  nest  and 
wire,  the  birds  soon  become  accustomed  to  it,  so  it  can  be  worked 
with  a  long  hose  from  the  Cabin  window  opposite. 

In  the  year  of  1905,  the  weather  moderated  for  a  few  days 
in  the  latter  part  of  February,  but  I  was  amazed  to  see  one  Pur- 
ple Martin  fluttering  around  the  windmill,  or  perching  to  rest 
on  the  grape-arbour,  looking  weather-beaten  and  as  if  it  were  ex- 
hausted from  a  long  flight.  It  was  scarcely  to  be  believed,  but 
that  night  the  gardener  said  he  had  seen  it  from  the  stable.  A 
few  days  later  a  tenant  on  the  farm  told  me  there  was  a  Martin 
at  his  boxes  on  the  same  day.  This  year  sharp  watch  shall  be 
kept  so  if  he  comes  again,  I  shall  be  convinced  that  the  Martins 
send  out  scouts  to  see  if  their  quarters  are  all  right.  My  belief 
in  this  is  so  strong  that  last  fall  I  refused  to  allow  their  box  to 
be  taken  down  and  stored  in  the  stable  until  spring,  for  fear  a 
prospector  should  be  sent  to  see  if  it  were  safe,  find  it  missing, 
and  so  become  discouraged  and  take  up  quarters  elsewhere. 

The  flock  arrives  from  the  first  to  the  fifteenth  of  May.  The 
gardener  empties  their  boxes  at  the  first  sign  of  their  coming. 
They  swarm  all  over  the  windmill  and  immediately  the  fight 
with  the  dispossessed  Sparrows  begins.  The  past  year  we 

160 


THE  PURPLE  MARTIN 

boarded  up  the  openings  so  that  the  Sparrows  could  not  have 
the  boxes  lousy  and  infested  when  the  Martins  arrived.  That 
seemed  to  delight  the  Martins,  but  it  in  no  way  discouraged  the 
Sparrows. 

From  a  back  porch  where  a  rack  was  placed  containing  print- 
ing frames  on  which  I  was  doing  the  printing  of  these  illustrations 
I  watched  a  war  which  I  was  powerless  to  prevent.  All  day  it 
continued.  The  Martins  took  possession  of  the  boxes,  slept 
there  the  first  night  and  began  building  in  a  few  days.  When 
the  gardener  cleaned  the  boxes  this  fall  he  said  there  was  scarcely 
anything  that  could  be  called  nests — a  few  dried  grass-blades, 
pieces  of  strings,  rags  and  dry  leaves.  There  was  little  time  for 
elaborate  nest-building  in  the  strenuous  work  of  holding  the  fort. 

Every  time  a  Martin  left  a  door,  in  rushed  a  Sparrow  and  car- 
ried away  a  piece  of  straw  or  string,  or  threw  out  an  egg.  Every 
time  the  whole  Martin  flock  left  to  bathe  or  go  food-hunting, 
they  found  a  Sparrow  head  protruding  from  each  door  on  their 
return.  Then  there  was  a  battle  royal.  Seven  times  in  one  day 
the  Martins  sent  a  messenger  to  a  flock  occupying  a  larger  house 
than  mine  on  the  premises  of  Colonel  James  Hardison  four 
blocks  away,  air  line.  Each  time  the  bird  returned  with  rein- 
forcements to  the  number  of  twenty,  so  the  Sparrows  were  ousted. 

But  if  I  could  do  nothing  for  our  pets  of  the  windmill,  a 
mite  of  help  could  be  given  to  those  of  the  bird-house  on  the  wild 
cherry  stump.  Day  after  day  I  mounted  the  step-ladder  and 
with  a  bent  wire  tore  out  Sparrow  nests,  until  finally  the  Sparrows 
gave  up  the  house,  locating  in  a  large  ash  tree  on  a  line  with  the 
Martin  house,  facing  it,  and  only  three  rods  away.  The  Martins 
fought  valiantly  for  their  nests,  but  with  one  exception,  they 
never  went  to  the  Sparrows'  location  and  attacked  them.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  brooding  Sparrow  would  leave  her  nest, 
if  her  mate  were  not  close  to  harass  the  Martins,  and  enter  their 

161 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

box  to  be  on  hand  for  a  fight  with  them  every  time  they  returned 
home.  The  male  Martin  never  brooded,  but  his  other  attentions 
to  his  mate  seemed  delicate,  constant  and  tender.  When  the 
Sparrows  became  too  aggressive,  he  spent  every  minute,  when 
not  bathing  or  food-hunting,  doing  sentinel  duty  on  the  tele- 
phone wire  only  a  few  feet  from  his  front  door.  When  one  con- 
siders the  tireless  flight  of  the  Martin,  which  seems  forever 
winging  the  air,  one  can  not  help  feeling  that  those  long  stretches 
of  watching,  clinging  to  the  hot  wire,  were  severe  punishment. 

But  like  the  brave  soldier  he  was,  the  Martin  stood  sentinel 
on  the  wire  while  I  secured  many  good  pictures  of  him  there; 
pictures  in  which  the  strength  of  his  character  shows  plainly. 
Once  I  caught  him  when  he  was  watching  with  forceful  deter- 
mination to  guard  that  nest  or  die;  again  when  he  was  gathered 
for  a  dart,  for  even  as  the  shutter  sprang  he  flew  like  a  bolt  al  his 
enemy. 

One  day  he  proved  himself  a  soldier  indeed,  by  an  act  of 
strategy  that  human  warriors  have  employed  since  time  began. 
AAhile  he  was  away  from  home,  from  some  pressure  the  female 
felt  she  must  leave  the  nest.  She  came  to  the  door  and  looked 
all  around  for  him,  calling  several  times,  but  he  probably  was  at 
the  river,  as  he  returned  in  high  flight  from  that  direction. 
Failing  to  call  him  to  guard,  after  some  hesitation  the  female  left, 
also  flying  toward  the  river. 

She  was  not  out  of  sight  before  the  Sparrow  in  the  ash  left 
her  nest,  entered  the  Martin  house,  turned  around  and  filled  the 
door  with  her  head  and  shoulders.  It  was  only  a  few  seconds 
until  Father  Martin  reached  the  wire.  From  my  hammock  on 
the  veranda  a  few  feet  away,  screened  by  the  wistaria,  I  could 
see  the  rage  that  shook  him.  He  evidently  thought  it  unwise  to 
attack  the  Sparrow  in  his  nest,  so  he  darted  to  the  ash,  perched 
on  the  edge  of  the  Sparrow's  nest,  ripped  a  big  beakful  of  straw 

162 


THE  PURPLE  MARTIN 

from  it,  then  with  a  quick  jerk  of  his  head  scattered  it  on  the  wind. 
The  second  beakful  brought  the  Sparrow  home  in  a  hurry.  The 
Martin  flew  back  to  his  place  on  the  wire  where  he  executed  a 
small  triumphal  demonstration.  He  plumed  his  feathers  with 
exaggerated  swagger,  that  appeared  exactly  as  if  he  were  say- 
ing: "Oh,  didn't  I  fix  you  that  time!"  He  sprang  straight  up 
from  the  wire  then  rapidly  settled  again;  he  chattered  angrily, 
though  I  never  before  heard  him  make  a  sound  when  on  sentinel 
duty.  He  taught  the  Sparrow  a  lesson,  for  that  was  the  last 
time  for  weeks  she  entered  the  Martin  box.  She  would  dash 
at  the  Martins  threatening  them  outside,  but  she  seemed  to  have 
learned  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  the  besieged  retreating 
and  attacking  the  stronghold  of  the  enemy. 

The  past  year  six  pairs  of  Martins  nested  twice  on  our  wind- 
mill. They  averaged  four,  creamy-white,  oblong  oval  eggs  to  the 
nest.  After  the  first  brood  had  become  full  grown  and  self- 
supporting,  still  they  all  forced  into  that  box  for  the  night.  When 
the  second  brood  was  hatched,  and  joined  the  family  on  wing, 
they  could  not  crowd  into  the  box,  so  the  elders  slept  on  top  of  it 
in  a  narrow  space  beneath  the  platform  of  the  mill.  By  October, 
then,  our  twelve  Martins  of  spring,  allowing  four  eggs  to  the 
nest  and  two  broods  to  the  season,  had  multiplied  to  more  than 
forty.  The  Sparrows  must  have  destroyed  many,  for  I  never 
was  able  to  count  above  thirty  at  one  time  during  the  fall. 

However  many  there  were,  one  thing  was  sure :  they  all  stayed 
in  or  upon  that  box  at  night.  By  sundown  they  gathered  from 
the  forests  or  the  river  and  began  the  preliminaries  of  settling. 
For  full  an  hour  they  chattered,  jabbered  and  circled  in  wide 
sweeps  of  flight  around  the  mill.  At  first  they  would  fly  in  a 
wide  circle  nearly  from  sight.  Then  narrowing  by  almost 
imperceptible  degrees  after  an  hour,  sometimes  longer  on  wing, 
they  would  sweep  closely  around  the  box;  at  last  one  would  enter. 

163 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

After  that  one  or  two  deserted  the  circle  for  the  box  at  each  round 
until  the  last  bird  disappeared. 

I  am  glad  to  own  the  pictures  I  have  of  them.  The  coming 
summer,  however,  a  box  must  be  arranged  with  a  hinged  roof  so 
the  young  and  eggs  can  be  reproduced.  One  box  might  be 
placed  on  the  west  side  of  the  mill  so  that  a  focus  could  be  had 
on  it  from  the  barn  roof. 

So  far  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  wThat  is  possible  with  Mar- 
tins. I  never  shall  unless  some  way  is  invented  to  exterminate 
English  Sparrows.  But  I  have  succeeded  in  enticing  Martins 
to  build  on  our  premises,  affording  them  sufficient  protection 
to  bring  out  large  broods.  With  all  that  flock  to  clean  pests 
from  our  fruit  trees  and  sift  insect  plagues  from  the  air  with 
their  queer  little  sieve-like  throats,  we  were  almost  free  from 
mosquitoes,  and  what  a  fruit  crop  we  had !  Summer  life  at  the 
Cabin  would  not  be  complete  without  Martins.  I  like  to  hear 
their  morning  chatter,  to  watch  their  evening  flight,  while  the 
twitter  with  which  they  perform  the  business  of  living  is  all-day 
company  for  me. 


'He  spent  every  minute,  when  not  bathing  or  food-hunting,  doing  sentinel 
duty  on  the  telephone  wire" 


164 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Belted  Kingfisher:  Ceryle  Alcyon 

IN    EMBANKMENTS 

As  THE  cashier  pushed  the 
amount  of  my  check  under  the 
wicket,  Mr.  William  Hale,  the 
bookkeeper,  turned  from  his  desk, 
touching  the  tips  of  his  thumbs 
and  first  fingers  in  an  oval,  as  he 
asked:  "What  does  a  hole  shaped 
so,  and  running  six  feet  back  into 
a  solid  embankment,  mean?" 

"Is  the  bottom  of  it  like  this?" 
I  questioned,  picking  up  a  pencil 
and  drawing  a  line. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  he  answered. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "it  means 
Kingfishers.  The  middle  curve  is 
formed  by  their  breasts  and  the 
side  tracks  by  their  funny  little 
crippled  feet.  Wrhere  did  you  find 
a  hole  like  that? 

"Found  it  on  my  farm  while 
taking  Helen  and  Mary  for  a  walk 
yesterday.     It  is  in  the  back  wall  of 
the  old  pit  from  which  the  Grand 
Rapids  people  took  the  gravel  for  the  railway." 

167 


WAITING    FOR   LUNCH 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

"You  need  half  an  hour's  outing,"  I  suggested,  for  the  gravel 
pit  was  only  a  mile  away,  while  my  horse  was  at  the  door.  The 
cashier  happened  to  be  the  head  of  my  family,  so  the  matter  was 
easily  arranged.  Mr.  Hale  and  I  at  once  drove  to  his  farm. 

The  spot  was  beautiful,  a  fine  place  for  birds  of  all  kinds. 
Gravel  for  two  railroads  had  been  taken  from  one  small  hill, 
the  presence  of  which  in  this  stretch  of  low  country  was  difficult 
to  explain,  for  on  the  east  lay  the  river,  south  the  Limberlost, 
west  the  big  ditch  draining  it,  and  north  more  swampy  lowland. 
A  basin  had  been  shovelled  from  the  main  bed  of  gravel,  then 
veins  running  through  it  in  different  directions  had  been  fol- 
lowed up  as  far  as  pay  dirt  was  found.  Heavy  rains  and  drain- 
ings  from  the  swamp  had  transformed  these  into  a  small  lake  and 
canals.  As  this  happened  twenty  years  ago,  the  high  parts 
were  covered  now  with  tall  poplars  and  maples,  the  low  with  a 
beautiful  fringy-leaved  variety  of  willow,  the  canal  and  lake 
surrounded  by  cattails,  bullrushes  and  tall  swamp-grasses,  while 
everywhere  there  grew  luxuriant  vines,  or  almost  impenetrable 
thickets  of  wild  rose,  button-bush  and  all  kinds  of  swamp  under- 
brush. The  river  was  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  while  solid 
swamp  covered  the  intervening  space. 

The  back  wall  of  the  old  pit  was  twenty  feet  high  facing  east; 
nearly  a  foot  and  a  half  from  the  surface  was  the  opening  which 
had  attracted  Mr.  Hale  and  his  little  daughters  during  their 
Sabbath  walk.  We  cut  a  willow  to  measure  the  tunnel,  finding 
it  to  be  six  feet  deep.  We  threw  light  into  it  with  a  pocket 
mirror,  but  could  see  nothing.  Mr.  Hale  was  certain  that  the 
opening  had  not  been  there  the  previous  week,  as  he  had  been  at 
the  pit  much  of  late,  ostensibly  entertaining  the  children,  in 
reality,  from  the  number  of  locations  to  which  he  led  me,  hunt-- 
ing bird-nests  for  me.  I  was  sure  the  work  was  fresh,  for  a 
small  heap  of  sand  and  gravel  that  had  been  pushed  from  the 

168 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

excavation  lay  directly  beneath,  not  yet  spread  by  wind  and 
rain. 

That  a  bird  could  have  drilled  such  a  tunnel  seemed  abso- 
lutely impossible,  for  the  bank  was  hard  clay,  thickly  intermingled 
with  gravel  and  sand,  baked  by  the  glare*  of  the  sun  from  earliest 
morning  until  night.  Above  the  opening  meadow-grass  waved, 
beside  it  alders  and  willows  grew,  while  beneath,  where  the  last 
of  the  gravel  had  been  taken  out,  flourished  a  large  and  prosper- 
ous frog-pond.  One  had  to  creep  around  the  edges  of  this  pond 
clinging  "to  the  willows,"  in  reality,  as  well  as  to  dig  in  with 
the  toes  to  climb  to  the  location.  We  tried  showing  a  clear 
shaft  of  light  into  the  far  end  of  the  tunnel,  but  failed  to  see  any- 
thing except  that  there  was  a  turn  having  a  still  larger  opening 
made  to  the  north.  So  we  gave  it  up,  but  Mr.  Hale  consoled 
me  quite  by  pointing  out  the  nests  of  a  Cuckoo  and  a  Summer 
Yellow  Bird,  while  I  found  the  locations  of  a  Robin,  two  Cat- 
birds and  a  Purple  Finch. 

Work  on  these  nests  took  me  back  to  the  pit  daily.  For 
three  mornings  I  climbed  to  the  opening  and  with  a  hand-mirror 
explored  its  interior,  but  to  no  avail.  It  was  May;  every  day  I 
found  new  nests  here;  Bob  added  to  his  forty  a  mile  farther  east; 
I  was  working  on  the  series  of  Black  Vultures  in  the  Limberlost, 
calling  on  them  each  day  and  taking  their  likenesses  every  third 
day,  also  visiting  daily  half  a  dozen  widely  scattered  Cardinal 
nests  for  the  illustration  of  a  book.  Every  day  photographically 
possible,  I  was  in  the  woods  early  and  late,  stopping  at  absolutely 
nothing  that  stood  in  the  way  of  my  work;  you  well  may  believe 
with  such  richness  of  material  on  hand,  there  was  no  time  for 
anything  that  seemed  unpromising. 

But  one  day,  two  weeks  later,  when  passing  the  embankment, 
a  Swallow  came  from  the  opening  and  flew  away.  Immediately 
I  climbed  up,  throwing  in  a  strong  ray  of  light  with  a  large 

169 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

hand-mirror,  to  search  the  back  of  the  tunnel.  As  I  was  de- 
spairing, there  was  thrust  suddenly  into  the  light  a  big  scarred 
beak,  the  biggest  eyes  I  ever  had  seen  in  the  head  of  a  bird  of  that 
size,  and  a  flaring  crest.  The  figure  appeared  so  startling  as  it 
flashed  sharply  on  my  vision  that  I  jumped  until  I  dropped  the 
mirror,  sliding  down  into  the  frog-pond.  But  I  did  not  mind 
that.  I  had  a  brooding  Kingfisher,  the  bird  of  ancient  mystery, 
an  object  of  tradition  in  all  time;  whether  eluding  naturalists  of 
Greece,  controlling  the  weather  of  Italy,  or  driving  away  evil  luck 
and  devils  in  Germany.  I  confess  the  brooding  bird  appeared 
like  a  devil  to  me  back  there  in  the  dark,  while  as  she  rushed  from 
the  nest  flying  toward  the  river,  the  rattle  she  rolled  was  a  sound 
as  uncanny  as  I  ever  heard  from  the  throat  of  any  bird,  save  only 
the  Loon. 

What  to  do  was  the  question.  Go  after  a  man  and  have  him 
dig  in  to  the  back  of  the  nest?  That  would  give  a  picture  of  the 
eggs,  but  no  doubt  destroy  the  nest  and  drive  away  the  birds. 
"Wait  until  the  young  hatched  and  try  for  a  picture  of  them? 
That  seemed  more  likely  to  yield  the  best  results,  for  surely 
when  the  old  were  feeding  they  would  not  desert  the  young, 
even  if  the  nest  were  opened  at  the  back.  Then  the  babies  could 
be  pictured  while  the  old  ones  were  away,  carefully  replaced,  and 
then,  too,  there  was  every  chance,  that  with  set  cameras,  shots 
at  the  old  birds  could  be  taken  as  they  entered  and  left  the  nest. 
So  I  decided  to  wait.  That  day  the  bushes  were  carefully 
straightened  and  my  tracks  covered  when  I  left.  Also  arrange- 
ments were  made  with  Mr.  Hale's  farmer,  plowing  in  the  ad- 
joining field,  to  watch  the  pit,  and  drive  away  small  boys. 

After  that  I  haunted  the  location.  I  was  there  every  day. 
On  a  morning  of  the  second  week  of  June,  with  my  mirror  I 
caught  two  little  Kingfishers  peering  into  the  light.  Then  I 
went  after  help.  The  earth  was  so  hard  that  when  a  big  strong 

170 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

man  set  a  shovel  on  the  spot  we  had  measured  then  came  down 
on  it  with  his  foot,  it  curled  up  as  if  made  of  lead.  We  had  to 
bring  another  and  use  a  hatchet  for  most  of  the  work.  We  cut 
an  opening  into  the  tunnel,  six  inches  from  the  turn  to  the  nest, 
fitted  a  shingle  to  cover  it,  trimmed  a  piece  of  sod  to  fill  the  hole 
so  that  it  could  not  be  noticed  from  the  top;  thus  I  had  free  access 
to  the  young.  The  old  birds  never  knew  it.  On  their  return 
they  entered  the  tunnel  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

I  always  waited  until  their  morning  feeding  was  done.  .  As 
they  have  long,  tedious  waits  on  stumps  and  dead  limbs  above  the 
water  to  catch  the  crabs  and  minnows  which  form  the  greater 
part  of  their  diet,  and  always  utter  their  rattle  on  starting  from 
the  river  to  the  nest,  there  was  plenty  of  time  to  work  between 
their  visits,  then  drop  the  young  into  the  nest  and  cover  the 
opening  before  the  old  ones  arrived.  The  regurgitations  proved 
fish,  clams  and  crabs  to  be  the  staple  of  diet,  though  there  were  a 
few  berry-seeds,  occasionally  the  striped  legs  of  a  grasshopper. 

The  first  time  I  took  those  babies  into  my  lap  I  was  delighted. 
They  were  the  quaintest  young  birds  I  ever  had  handled;  the 
first  of  their  kind.  No  wonder  the  snowy  white  eggs  of  the 
Kingfisher  are  so  very  oblong.  They  have  to  be  to  allow  the 
growth  of  that  enormous  bill,  for  enormous  it  was,  even  on  the 
babies.  The  little  fellows  had  eyes  as  large  in  proportion  as  their 
elders,  crests  of  blue  coming,  a  tiny  white  dot  before  either  eye, 
broad  collars  of  white,  steel-blue  wings  and  backs,  tail  and  pri- 
mary wing-feathers  banded  with  white,  and  white  breasts  touched 
with  blue  below  the  crop. 

The  old  birds  were  exactly  like  them,  save  that  the  breast 
of  the  female  was  russet  where  that  of  the  male  was  blue.  Per- 
haps these  birds  seemed  slightly  different  to  me  from  any  others 
I  have  worked  with  before  or  since,  because  they  did  so  exactly 
what  I  hoped  they  would  do.  Still  I  never  have  seen  any  living 

171 


or 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

pictured  Kingfishers  with  quite  such  heavy  big  beaks,  such 
big  eyes,  such  flaring  crests.  They  seemed  to  me  larger  and 
finer  in  every  way;  it  may  be  imagination,  yet  I  feel  sure  they 
were.  You  can  compare  their  pictures  with  others  you  have 
seen,  then  decide  for  yourselves. 

At  the  first  picturing  of  the  babies,  I  tried  twice,  securing 
good  likenesses  of  them.  The  second  time,  some  days  later  and 
near  the  time  when  they  would  be  going,  I  was  assisted  by  Ray- 
mond Miller,  a  young  friend  of  mine  who  was  born  for  a  naturalist. 
While  focussing  on  these  birds  I  explained  to  Raymond  that  two 
were  a  small  brood;  frequently  there  were  seven  and  eight  in  a 
family.  I  said  to  him: 

"Wouldn't  it  be  splendid  if  we  had  seven  in  this  picture?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Raymond  dubiously;  "if  there 
were  seven,  people  would  get  so  mixed  looking  at  all  of  them,  they 
never  would  see  how  cunning  only  two  are." 

I  knew  that  if  I  were  ever  to  get  snap  shots  at  the  old  birds, 
in  all  probability  it  would  have  to  be  while  they  were  engrossed 
with  family  cares.  I  never  worked  harder  than  I  did  over  those 
birds.  Up  one  river-bank,  down  the  other,  across  the  swamp  and 
beside  the  Limberlost  ditch  I  followed  them,  until  I  had  located 
fifty  spots  on  stumps  and  dead  branches,  from  which  they  fished 
every  day.  Then  to  figure  on  lighting,  where  to  set  a  camera, 
where  to  conceal  myself,  whether  I  had  the  bird  in  range  or  would 
waste  my  plate  if  I  made  an  exposure :  these  were  the  next  con- 
siderations. 

Never  was  luck  so  surely  with  me.  And  never  were  pictures 
so  due  to  luck,  pure  and  simple.  Of  all  the  stumps  and  dead 
branches  on  which  I  had  seen  them  perch,  who  could  say  on  which 
they  would  alight  at  their  next  coming?  It  was  by  the  merest 
chance  that  I  guessed  it,  focussing  mostly  on  points  they  visited. 
There  was  extra  grace  granted  me  because  I  did  not  disturb 

172 


THE    HEAD    OF   THE   KINGFISHER    FAMILY 


"His  big  beak  was  scarred  from  tip  to  base  by  contact  with  stone  and  gravel 
in  tunnelling" 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

the  birds  while  brooding,  for  as  sure  as  fate  I  do  have  best 
luck  when  I  work  in  ways  that  can  not  possibly  injure  the  birds. 
Once  I  got  a  splendid  small  picture  of  the  male  fishing  from  a 
favourite  spot  on  a  dead  branch  above  the  river.  He  was  near 
enough  and  the  focus  sharp  enough  to  give  the  detail  of  every 
feather  to  show  distinctly  the  hard  work  he  had  done  in  excavat- 
ing his  tunnel,  for  his  big  beak  was  scarred' from  tip  to  base 
by  contact  with  stone  and  gravel.  He  was  a  noble  bird,  as  he 
perched  in  front  of  my  camera.  If  you  want  to  realize,  as  you 
never  have  before,  how  amusing  the  bird  caricatures  of  artists  of 
brush  and  pencil  are,  compare  some  of  their  attempts  at  drawing 
Kingfishers  with  these  living  free  birds. 

I  could  not  make  a  better  picture  than  one  I  had  of  the  female, 
also  fishing;  but  it  was  on  a  stump  in  mid-river  that  I  "capped 
the  climax."  I  pictured  the  female  there,  fishing  alone,  then  was 
so  delighted  with  the  plate  that  I  set  the  camera  a  second  day  to 
learn  if  by  any  chance  I  could  improve  it.  By  one  of  my  special 
dispensations  I  took  the  pair;  the  female  -dripping  as  she  came 
up  from  a  plunge,  the  male  with  flaring  crest,  only  an  instant 
before  he  flattened  it  to  dive. 

In  the  midst  of  the  series  came  a  rare  June  freshet.  The 
Limberlost  arose  to  meet  the  river;  the  water  crept  up  and  up 
until  the  ditch  and  river  were  raging  torrents,  while  all  low 
country  was  under  water.  I  had  not  finished  with  the  babies. 
For  three  days  I  worried,  the  fourth  the  rain  stopped,  the  sun 
shone,  so  I  started  with  Molly-Cotton  to  drive  to  the  pit.  'We 
followed  a  short  route  through  a  lane  across  Mr.  Hale's  farm, 
but  we  found  the  water  a  few  inches  deep  over  the  road  before  we 
reached  the  Limberlost  bridge.  Molly-Cotton  was  dubious,  but 
I  was  determined,  so  we  drove  on  to  the  bridge.  Beyond  it  was  a 
terrifying  sight. 

The  water  of  the  big  ditch  was  running  like  a  mill-race;  the 

175 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

flood  covered  all  the  fields  and  swamp  save  a  few  of  the  highest 
places.  It  was  above  the  fences,  covered  with  floating  logs  and 
debris.  The  bridge  to  the  private  ditch  crossing  Mr.  Male's  land 
was  lodged  in  the  swamp  against  some  tree-trunks.  We  could 
not  go  on,  neither  could  we  turn  around.  We  unhitched  the 
horse,  tied  him  to  the  bridge,  backed  the  carriage  off  into  the 
road,  and  when  we  thought  we  were  far  enough  to  miss  the 
embankment,  tried  to  turn  it.  We  had  not  gone  so  far  as  we 
supposed,  for  it  ran  down  a  steep  place  until  the  water  filled 
half  the  bed  reaching  my  best  camera. 

With  all  our  might  we  pulled  and  pulled  but  could  not  budge 
it.  Then  we  corralled  some  floating  rails,  laid  them  out  to  the 
running  gear,  Molly-Cotton  walked  them  and  set  the  camera  and 
my  waders  upon  the  seat.  Next  we  brought  down  the  horse, 
tied  the  lines  to  the  tugs  and  to  the  carriage,  held  up  the  shafts, 
and  with  Patience's  help  drew  the  carriage  into  the  road,  where 
we  harnessed  and  drove  back. 

On  the  road  leading  east  from  town  we  held  a  consultation 
then  decided  to  drive  over  to  the  levee  and  prospect  from  there. 
We  turned  south  at  the  first  crossing,  but  when  we  came  to  the 
gate  we  expected  to  enter,  the  water  was  a  foot  deep.  That 
portion  of  the  meadow  lying  beside  the  ditch  was  all  under  water, 
but  there  was  no  current.  I  was  doubtful  about  it,  when  Molly- 
Cotton  proposed  to  put  on  my  waders  and  prospect.  It  was 
meadow  that  cattle  had  grazed  over,  I  had  driven  through  it  all 
the  spring,  she  could  feel  her  way  before  her,  so  I  consented. 
She  put  on  the  waders,  pinned  up  her  skirts,  took  a  water  tripod, 
and  started.  She  wore  a  flaming  red  waist.  In  the  midst  of 
that  pool  I  saw  she  was  attracting  the  attention  of  a  cow  of  the 
Hale  herd.  I  did  not  know  whether  the  cow  would  enter  the 
water,  but  I  did  know  Molly-Cotton  could  not  hurry  on  that 
soggy  ground,  with  those  heavy  waders;  so  I  called  to  her  to 

176 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

come  to  me  as  quickly  as  she  could,  that  "I  saw  something"  I 
wanted  up  the  road.  Whenever  I  "see  something"  all  of  my 
family  prepare  to  capture  it.  I  knew  that  would  bring  her  with 
haste,  but  not  frighten  her.  On  came  the  cow. 

"Hurry  all  you  can,  Molly-Cotton,  I  am  afraid  it  will  get  away ! 
Do  come  faster!"  I  urged.  She  barely  reached  the  gate  in  time, 
and  only  saw  the  cow  when  she  left  the  water.  She  said  I  had 
been  wise,  for  she  could  not  have  helped  trying  to  run  if  she  had 
seen  it.  As  the  water  was  within  three  inches  of  the  boot  tops, 
she  surely  would  have  fallen. 

Next  we  decided  to  drive  through,  so  we  started.  It  was  a 
treacherous  journey,  for  the  way  was  covered  with  stumps  and 
logs  besides  the  floating  stuff.  We  unreined  the  horse,  which  was 
wise,  for  half  the  way  across,  the  carriage  was  floating,  we  were 
on  the  seat  holding  the  camera,  while  Patience  swam  several  rods. 
We  reached  high  ground  safely,  driving  over  the  ridge,  confident 
that  we  were  on  the  way  to  the  nest.  When  we  were  almost 
there  we  came  to  a  ditch  ten  feet  wide  and  six  feet  deep,  that  we 
had  forgotten.  I  had  hoped  to  reach  the  nest,  secure  a  picture 
and  cross  the  corn-field  to  the  road,  paying  for  any  damage  we 
might  do  to  the  young  corn.  Here  was  another  full  stop.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  make  that  trip  back  again.  I 
proposed  to  drive  to  the  south  of  the  ditch,  try  to  swim  the  horse 
across,  and  thus  reach  the  bed  of  the  road  from  which  we  had 
turned  back  at  the  bridge.  This  time  Molly-Cotton  was  dubious. 
I  drove  the  horse  to  the  water,  where  he  showed  his  good  sense 
by  balking  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

He  simply  would  not  enter  that  water.  I  suppose  the  stiff 
current  and  the  floating  logs  dismayed  him.  We  had  to  back 
out,  facing  the  flood  and  the  cow  again.  It  was  rather  sickening 
business.  I  was  glad  when  it  was  safely  over.  After  the  flood 
subsided  I  went  to  see  the  place  I  had  tried  to  drive  into.  It  was 

179 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

an  abrupt  embankment  and  where  I  would  have  driven  the 
water  had  been  nine  feet  deep  with  a  stiff  current,  so  undoubtedly 
the  horse  saved  our  lives  by  refusing  to  enter. 

After  we  left  the  meadow  the  last  resort  was  to  drive  south 
on  the  road  until  we  reached  the  corn-field,  cross  that,  and  thus 
approach  the  quarry  on  its  west  side.  We  stopped  to  take  a 
picture  of  the  Kingfisher,  fishing  from  an  old  fence-post;  with  a 
small  camera  and  long  distance  it  was,  but  a  beautiful  thing. 
Then  we  drove  south.  The  road  lay  straight  before  us  while  at 
no  place  was  the  water  over  two  feet  deep,  so  we  were  safe  there. 
We  got  into  the  field,  then  into  the  quarry,  and  were  overjoyed 
to  find  our  birds.  During  our  absence  they  had  grown,  it  seemed, 
fully  a  fourth  larger,  the  pinfeathers  around  the  base  of  the  beak 
had  opened,  making  their  faces  much  handsomer,  the  plumage 
had  developed  and  taken  on  colour,  while  the  size  of  their  eyes, 
beaks  and  crests  was  comical.  We  sat  on  the  ground  and  played 
with  them  while  we  rested  from  our  rough  experiences. 

We  used  especial  care  with  those  studies  of  them,  as  we  thought 
they  would  be  the  last.  In  one  of  them  we  felt  repaid  for  all  our 
efforts;  but  in  field  work  one  never  can  tell,  for  this  was  not  the 
end.  That  came  unexpectedly  two  days  later.  Passing  the 
quarry  with  Raymond,  I  suggested  to  him  that  we  see  if  the  birds 
were  gone.  As  we  approached,  there  were  the  youngsters  in  the 
doorway,  evidently  meditating  their  first  flight.  They  would 
crowd  up  beside  each  other,  half  lift  their  wings,  peep  down  over 
the  edge,  draw  back,  then  threaten  to  try  again. 

"  Oh,  Raymond ! "  I  gasped.  "  That  is  my  picture !  There  is 
the  real  natural-history  picture  of  those  birds.  Fifty  of  them 
made  when  taken  from  their  nest  and  set  up  somewhere  are  not 
worth  that  one  !  Oh,  I  must  have  that ! " 

" Can't  you  take  it?"  asked  Raymond. 

"I  must,"  I  answered,  but  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  at- 

180 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

tempting,  for  that  picture  cost  me  the  highest  price  I  ever  paid 
for  any  study,  with  the  exception  of  one  landscape. 

"Cover  the  hole  with  your  hat  until  something  can  be  found 
to  stop  it,"  I  said.  Raymond  in  his  eagerness  splashed  through 
the  frog-pond  to  do  as  he  was  told.  A  piece  of  sod  securely 
stopped  the  opening.  Then  I  figured  on  the  light  and  where  my 
camera  must  stand.  Of  course  the  location  fell  in  the  frog-pond. 
There  was  no  way  to  place  the  camera,  so  we  began  carrying 
stumps  and  rotten  logs  to  build  a  foundation.  When  we  had  a 
fairly  solid  basis  we  brought  rails  from  the  fence  near  by,  laying 
them  lengthwise  and  then  across  until  we  had  a  solid  platform 
above  the  water.  Then  I  set  up  my  tallest  step-ladder,  placed 
an  eight-by-ten  camera  on  top,  focussing  on  the  opening.  The 
camera  was  exactly  right,  so  I  put  in  a  plate,  attached  the  sixty- 
foot  hose,  tossing  the  bulb  on  the  embankment. 

Then  I  went  in  front,  set  the  shutter  at  a  snap,  and  climbed 
up  to  remove  the  sod.  Raymond  crowded  close  behind  me  to 
help.  We  broke  into  a  colony  of  digger  wasps.  They  swarmed 
all  over  us.  Raymond  had  one  on  his  ankle,  also  on  his  arm.  I 
had  one  on  my  arm  and  one  down  the  back  of  my  neck  inside  my 
linen  collar.  I  do  not  remember  that  anything  ever  hurt  me 
more.  It  was  the  middle  of  June,  our  time  of  most  intense  heat; 
I  had  worked  carrying  rails  and  logs  until  my  blood  was  over- 
heated, while  the  sting  was  on  my  spine,  close  the  base  of  the 
brain.  I  was  so  paralyzed  that  it  was  some  time  before  I  could 
move  to  doctor  Raymond  with  wet  clay. 

I  sent  him  into  the  willows  in  front  of  the  nest,  gave  him  some 
lunch  and  water,  telling  him  to  sleep  or  do  anything  save  make  a 
movement.  If  he  happened  to  see  the  young  coming  he  was  to 
signal  me.  Then  I  went  up  on  that  embankment,  lay  down, 
hung  my  chin  over  the  edge  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  tunnel. 
Fifty  times  the  youngsters  came  close  enough  that  I  could  catch 

181 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

the  gleam  of  their  bills,  but  seeing  the  camera  they  retreated. 
Many  times  it  seemed  Lshould  have  to  give  up  because  I  could  not 
endure  the  punishment.  Like  a  mustard  plaster  that  sun  poured 
down  on  my  shoulders  and  arms.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  being  blis- 
tered, and  I  was.  Each  upper  arm  and  the  tops  of  my  shoulders 
above  my  heavier  clothing  were  burned  into  patches  of  water 
blisters  as  large  as  my  hand,  while  I  can  not  tell  how  those  wasp- 
stings  throbbed  and  ached. 

It  was  two  and  a  half  hours  by  my  watch;  I  was  almost  in- 
sensible, when  a  faint  whistle  from  Raymond  recalled  me.  I 
looked  down,  snapping  on  the  instant,  and  secured  the  coveted 
picture.  This  in  connection  with  the  two  fishing  pictures  of  the 
grown  birds  are  the  only  real,  natural  Kingfisher  pictures  I  have 
ever  seen.  I  could  scarcely  pack  my  camera  and  return  to  the 
Cabin.  I  was  red  as  red  flannel,  long  ago  perspiration  had  dried 
up,  while  my  flesh  burned  as  with  fire.  I  got  into  the  bath-tub, 
turned  on  hot  water  and  took  a  Turkish  bath  until  perspiration 
started  again  to  sweat  the  heat  out  of  me.  Then  I  dressed  my 
blisters  and  went  to  bed  for  the  remainder  of  the  day.  But 
never  since  have  I  been  able  to  endure  the  same  degree  of  heat 
for  that  length  of  time. 

Whatever  it  cost,  it  was  worth  while.  The  picture  is  one  of 
my  finest,  also  I  got  some  mental  impressions  on  that  day,  of  the 
swamp  in  the  quarry,  and  across  the  road,  and  of  the  line  of 
the  river,  which  I  now  could  reproduce  to  the  least  detail.  I 
could  catch  every  breath  of  movement  among  the  willows  and 
poplars.  There  were  water  rats  riffling  the  pool,  and  snakes 
weaving  among  the  grasses.  All  birds  of  spring  were  busy 
everywhere.  The  Red-winged  Blackbirds,  there  were  myriads 
of  them,  seemed  especially  to  delight  in  swaying  on  the  rushes 
and  splashing  in  the  water.  It  appeared  to  me,  up  on  that 
embankment,  in  the  merciless  heat,  throbbing  with  wasp-stings, 

182 


THE  BELTED  KINGFISHER 

burning  with  thirst,  blistering  with  sunburn,  that  those  provoking 
birds  took  pleasure  in  bathing  with  exaggerated  slop  and  splash. 
For  one  insane  moment,  after  the  shutter  closed,  I  had  an  idea  of 
throwing  myself  into  that  pool  and  splashing  also.  Then  it 
came  to  me  that  in  my  condition  to  enter  cold  water  meant  death, 
so  I  waited  and  endured  the  further  punishment  of  the  hot  bath, 
or  I  would  not  to-day  tell  the  story  of  my  friendship  with  the 
Kingfishers. 


fi 


W£5*A       ' 

KINGFISHER    FLATS 


183 


"He  laughs  by  the  summer  stream 

Where  the  lilies  nod  and  dream, 
As  through  the  sheen  of  water  cool  and  clear 
He  sees  the  chub  and  sunfish  cutting  sheer. 

His  are  resplendent  eyes; 

His  mien  is  kingliwise; 

And  down  the  May  wind  rides  he  like  a  king, 
With  more  than  royal  purple  on  his  wing." 
— Thompson. 


184 


-f*.     """" 
1:1 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Cat-bird:     Galeoscoptes  Caroliniensis 

IN   THICKETS 

"  GUESS  what,  I  have  for  you," 
commanded  Bob. 

"Nest  of  a  Ha-ha  bird,"  I  ventured. 
"Ha,   ha!     Nests   of   forty   other 
birds,"  he  retorted. 

I  stood  staring.  Seyeral  days  be- 
fore I  had  confided  to  Bob  that  I  was 
in  trouble.  I  had  accepted  a  position 
on  the  staff  of  an  outing  magazine, 
contracting  to  furnish,  during  the  en- 

YOUNG  CAT-BIRD  suingyear,  at  least  nine  natural-history, 

articles,    each    illustrated    with   from 

four  to  ten  studies  of  birds.  At  the  time  of  making  that  con- 
tract I  had  only  four  pictures  suitable  for  use.  So  I  appealed 
to  him  to  watch  closer  than  usual  as  he  passed  from  well  to 
well  beside  the  river;  and  to  mark  every  nest  he  saw  for  me. 
This  was  the  answer — the  answer  big  as  the  great  heart  of  Bob. 
My  spirits  bounded.  Forty  nests!  Why,  from  them  material 
could  be  secured  to  last  me  three  years. 
"Bob!  What  kinds?"  I  cried. 

"Oh,  Robins,  Gat-birds,  Cuckoos,  Larks,  Doves,  Redbirds, 
Jays,  Red-winged  Blackbirds,  and  a  lot  of  little  fine  stuff  of  which 
I  don't  know  the  names." 

187 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

"A  lot  of  little  fine  stuff  /"  That  meant  Warblers,  Finches, 
V'ireos  and  Sparrows. 

"And  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  lot,"  said  Bob,  "the  one  you 
must  photograph  first,  is  the  nest  of  a  common  old  Cat-bird. 
I  never  saw  anything  prettier  in  the  nest  line." 

That  same  day  I  began  a  series  of  drives  to  Bob's  lease  that 
continued  every  fair  day  throughout  the  season.  The  trip  was  a 
delight.  The  way  lay  across  the  levee  east  of  the  village,  where 
every  attraction  of  wood  life  was  to  be  found  growing  in  a  tangle, 
while  a  babel  of  bird-song  swelled  early  and  late,  led  always  by 
the  Bell  Bird  I  had  pictured  a  few  days  before,  which  I  now 
claimed  as  my  especial  property.  After  crossing  the  bridge,  the 
green  line  of  the  river,  decorated  with  the  white  bloom  of  haw- 
thorn and  wild  plum,  lay  always  in  sight.  At  Bob's  lease  a  sud- 
den curve  brought  the  water  to  the  road,  then  swept  it  away  again 
leaving  a  pressing  invitation  to  all  and  sundry  to  follow  to 
learn  from  the  Wabash  itself  why  people  wrote  poems  and  sang 
songs  about  it. 

The  lease  lay  on  both  sides  of  the  road.  On  the  right  as  you 
approached  was  the  Aspy  farm,  where  the  Bobolink  strutted  the 
rod-line;  adjoining  it  on  the  same  side  was  Stanley's  where  the 
Shrikes  homed  in  the  oak,  Kingbirds  in  the  orchard  and  Larks 
in  the  meadow. 

On  the  left  lay  a  strip  of  high,  grassy,  wooded  pasture,  cut 
into  curves  by  the  river,  on  the  near  bank  of  wrhich  was  the  power 
house.  Below  the  house  and  oil-tanks  was  a  grassy  old  orchard 
running  down  to  the  water.  Across  the  river  was  a  deep  wood, with 
large  pools  frequented  by  Bittern  and  Heron;  tangles  of  under- 
brush, and  forest  trees  of  the  height  and  size  selected  by  Hawks  and 
Crows.  Where  could  be  found  another  such  Paradise  for  birds? 

Bob  did  have  forty  nests  located,  while  he  had  not  worked 
very  long  to  do  it.  That  day  was  spent  in  taking  an  inventory 

188 


YOUNG   CAT-BIRDS 

'Cat-bird  nestlings  are  so  gentle  as  to  seem  almost  Dove-like" 


THE  CAT-BIRD 

of  them,  going  into  ecstasies  over  their  beauty,  trying  to  decide, 
by  the  condition  of  the  nest  and  the  bushes  around,  on  which  to 
work  first,  until  we  reached  the  nest  of  the  Cat-bird — there  I 
stopped,  charmed  with  its  beauty.  Without  a  word  Bob  leaped 
the  old  snake  fence,  crossing  the  orchard  to  bring  the  camera. 

The  nest  was  in  a  red  haw  thicket  in  a  corner  of  the  fence 
separating  the  orchard  from  the  meadow.  It  was  low  enough  to 
take  from  a  tripod,  there  was  no  obstruction  to  prevent  my  set- 
ting it  exactly  where  it  should  be  placed,  while  the  light  was  fine. 
Photographic  conditions  could  scarcely  have  been  bettered  in 
field  work.  It  was  imperative  to  record  the  nest  at  once  be- 
cause browsing  cattle,  angered  by  flies,  might  run  into  the  bushes, 
destroying  it  any  hour. 

The  fence  was  a  lichen-covered,  linty,  picturesque  old  affair; 
the  bushes  were  young  and  newly  leaved  in  rare  shades  of  golden 
green;  beautiful  vines  clambered  everywhere,  while  moss,  ferns 
and  wild  flowers  grew  beneath.  The  nest  was  built  of  fine  twigs 
such  as  were  numerous  underfoot  in  the  fence  corners;  but  some- 
where in  the  fields  the  Cat-birds  had  found  a  finely  shredded 
corn-husk,  or  one  so  old  that  they  could  shred  it  themselves,  for 
the  nest  was  lined  with  this  material,  bleached  almost  white. 
There  was  some  dry  grass  also,  while  the  eggs  were  that  ex- 
quisite deep  blue-green  of  this  species.  That  was  the  picture. 
No  wonder  Bob  hurried  for  the  camera!  Of  all  the  forty  nests 
into  which  we  had  gazed  with  reverent  wonder  that  morning,  not 
pendent  purse  of  Oriole,  cobweb-decorated  cup  of  Vireo,  living 
green  arch  of  Lark,  or  flat  bowl  of  Quail  had  been  so  beautiful  as 
this. 

Of  course  it  could  not  wait,  so  I  made  two  exposures  to  be  sure. 
Then  overtures  to  the  Cat-birds  began  by  sprinkling  cracker 
crumbs,  of  which  they  are  very  fond,  on  the  top  rail  of  the  fence. 
The  mother  bird  proved  why  she  was  named  by  keeping  up  a 

191 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

feline  concert  in  the  thicket.  "  Me-aw,  me-aw,  me-aw ! "  "  Me- 
ow, me-ow,  me-ow!  'Arry,  'any,"  then  insistently:  "Har-ryl 
7/ar-ry!" 

Making  friends  with  her  was  a  task.  The  Rubicon  was  a 
circle  nearly  three  yards  from  her  in  any  direction;  when  you 
crossed  it,  no  matter  with  what  adroitness  you  made  your  ap- 
proach, she  vanished.  I  never  secured  a  study  of  her  brooding. 
It  was  impossible  to  take  it  without  separating  the  bushes,  while 
not  even  after  her  eggs  had  quickened  could  I  touch  her  fence- 
corner  without  her  taking  flight. 

While  making  these  efforts  my  appreciation  of  Cat-bird 
music  doubled,  but  all  I  ever  had  of  Cat-bird  character  was  lost; 
so  that  in  these  days,  the  memory  of  those  hours  of  watching, 
filled  with  the  exquisite  morning  and  evening  song  of  the  Cat-bird 
father  as  he  perched  in  a  topmost  bough  of  the  old  apple-tree,  is 
what  keeps  me  from  destroying  every  nest  I  find. 

He  liked  a  big  Rambo  closest  his  location;  there,  from  a 
high  twig  the  mimic  copied  the  notes  of  every  bird  of  the  lease. 
He  could  do  the  Robin's  rain-song  beautifully.  He  reproduced 
the  Bobolink  of  the  rod-line,  across  the  road,  until  he  deceived  me 
if  he  opened  his  matins  with  that  strain.  He  piped  the  lay  of  the 
Song  Sparrow,  and  warbled  like  the  Warblers.  He  could  not 
whistle,  but  he  could  catch  the  "  Co  'cheer,  co  'cheer ! "  notes  of  the 
Cardinals  across  the  river.  In  fact,  traces  could  be  detected  of 
the  notes  of  every  bird  of  the  orchard,  meadow  and  forest  except- 
ing the  Lark  and  the  Quail. 

He  mixed  them  all  up,  worked  them  over,  then  poured  them 
out  in  a  continuous  and  ever-changing  stream  of  melody  so  fast 
one  had  to  do  mental  gymnastics  to  place  each  note.  Then  at 
times  he  became  inspired  with  his  own  performance,  his  beady 
eyes  threw  gleams  of  light,  his  throat  swelled  its  fullest  while 
he  rocked  the  twig  he  perched  on  improvising  a  melody  of  his 

192 


THE  CAT-BIRD 

own  that  was  a  reminder  of  all  fine  wood  music  yet  a  repetition 
of  none.     Because  of  this  I  forgave  him  much. 

There  was  much  to  forgive;  for  among  Bob's  forty  nests 
there  were  Blackbirds,  Song  Sparrows  and  Doves  on  that  same 
stretch  of  fence,  before  it  ended  at  the  river.  There  were  King- 
birds, Robins,  Vireos,  Bluebirds  and  Orioles  in  the  orchard; 
beside  the  river,  Cardinals,  Cuckoos,  Warblers,  Indigo  Finches, 
Sandpipers,  Grebe  and  Shitepoke;  while  in  the  meadow  were  the 
Bobolink  and  Lark,  Quail  and  Ground  Robin.  Into  the  home 
affairs  of  each  bird  of  them  at  some  point  in  my  work  came  that 
Cat-bird  with  his  sharp  little  beak  and  sharper  black  eyes. 
Much  that  I  formerly  had  laid  to  the  credit  of  my  ancient  enemy 
the  Crow,  in  reality  proved  to  be  the  work  of  the  Cat-bird. 

He  stole  eggs  from  Vireo  and  Warbler  when  only  two  and 
three  in  a  nest  proved  them  fresh.  It  was  so  easy,  while  a  little 
mother  the  size  of  a  Goldfinch  was  bathing  or  exercising,  to  slip 
to  her  nest,  pick  out  a  tiny,  thin-shelled  egg,  crush  it,  and  suck 
up  the  contents.  Also  he  was  responsible  for  the  disappearance 
of  many  newly  hatched  Warblers  and  other  birds  of  their  size, 
because  one  day,  directly  before  my  lens,  he  darted  to  the  nest 
of  a  Summer  Yellow  Bird,  snatched  and  swallowed  a  baby  as  if 
it  were  a  juicy  grub. 

That  day  I  determined  to  ask  Bob  to  shoot  him.  The 
following  morning,  while  making  studies  of  a  pair  of  his  own 
nestlings,  he  paid  me  the  tribute  of  singing  to  me,  as  I  worked; 
his  mixed  chorus  of  orchard,  meadow  and  forest  almost  broke 
my  heart  by  the  most  beautiful  improvisations  I  yet  had  heard 
from  him,  and  ended  my  captivation  quite  by  continuing  his  song 
while  two  of  his  young  perched  on  my  hand,  instead  of  coming 
down  and  frightening  them  into  a  panic  with  his  cat-calls  as  I 
feared  he  would. 

So  now  I  am  traitor  to  other  dainty  little  folk  I  should  pro- 
tect, for  while  beyond  all  doubt  he  is  responsible  for  much  dam- 

193 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

age,  every  time  the  opportunity  comes  to  tell  on  him  and  urge  his 
partial  extermination,  at  least,  I  find  myself  hiding  his  sins, 
excusing  his  shortcomings,  all  because  of  his  exquisite  song. 

There  is  small  enough  cause  to  love  him.  He  follows  me 
through  the  woods  for  a  mile  arousing  suspicion  and  fear  in  the 
hearts  of  more  trusting  birds  by  his  questionings.  Many  weary 
waits  with  a  set  camera  have  been  just  at  the  point  of  fruition 
when  a  Cat-bird  came  mewling  around,  made  my  subject  flighty 
by  his  intrusion,  so  spoiling  my  picture. 

He  is  more  pervasive  and  inquisitive  than  the  Blue  Jay. 
He  differs  from  the  Jay.  Convince  a  Jay  that  you  are  a  part 
of  woodland  life,  that  you  are  not  shooting  or  making  a  dis- 
turbance, then  he  will  go  away  and  leave  you  alone.  But  a  Cat- 
bird is  always  questioning,  never  seeming  to  find  a  satisfactory 
answer.  He  fails  to  become  accustomed  to  your  presence  around 
other  nests,  which  is  pure  perversity,  for  he  will  accept  you  near 
his  own  when  he  feels  assured  that  you  are  doing  no  damage.  If 
hunger-pangs  or  family  cares  did  not  strongly  call  him,  he  would 
follow  me  all  day,  watching,  questioning  and  interfering  with 
what  was  happening  to  other  birds. 


YOUXG    CAT-BIRDS 


CUCKOO    NEST    ON    SHITEPOKE    FOUNDATION 


BROODING    CUCKOO 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  Yellow -Billed  Cuckoo:     Coccyzus  American  us 

IN  SMALL  THICKLY  LEAVED  TREES 

I  LOVE  the  Cuckoo.  In  this 
taste  there  is  much  good  company, 
for  I  could  quote,  to  the  length  of  a 
chapter,  poems  and  songs  by  lovers 
of  the  bird.  Traditions  concerning 
it  are  almost  as  old  and  as  inter- 
woven in  fable  and  legend  as  those 
of  the  Kingfisher.  It  is  an  individ- 
ual bird,  while  its  characteristics  are 
sharply  outlined.  It  is  a  bird  that 
has  been  slandered  by  writers  learned  in  the  lore  of  books,  but 
lacking  in  knowledge  of  the  woods  and  the  actual  habits  of  birds. 
There  are  charges  against  it  of  depositing  its  eggs  in  other 
birds'  nests,  as  do  its  European  relatives.  Surely  in  the  length 
of  my  life,  I  have  looked  into  as  many  birds'  nests  as  any  other 
one  person,  yet  I  never  saw  a  Cuckoo  egg  that  had  been  deposited 
with  other  species.  It  is  charged  with  destroying  the  nests 
and  young  of  other  birds;  I  never  have  seen  a  suspicion  of  this 
characteristic  in  it,  and  I  have  yet  to  meet  a  real  natural-history 
worker,  of  the  woods,  who  has.  It  is  accused,  by  writers  who 
should  know  better,  of  having  a  filthy,  repulsive  nest  and  badly 
soiled  surroundings.  This  would  be  to  advertise  its  location 
widely,  while  one  of  the  most  prominent  characteristics  of  the 
bird  is  its  power  of  concealment,  its  secretive  habits. 

197 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Two  of  my  most  beautiful  Cuckoo  nests  were  on  the  Hale  farm, 
one  of  them  being  pointed  out  to  me  by  Mr.  Will  Hale  the  same 
clay  he  led  me  to  the  Kingfisher's  location.  This  nest  was  in  the 
crotch  of  a  scrub  elm,  close  twelve  feet  from  the  ground,  in  a 
thicket  on  the  bank  of  the  small  lake  opposite  the  Kingfishers. 
I  can  not  prove  what  bird  originally  built  that  nest,  but  I  do  know 
the  Cuckoos  never  did.  The  structure  began  in  the  sharp  parting 
of  the  branches,  being  one  and  a  half  feet  in  height.  Some  of  the 
sticks  used  in  its  construction  toward  the  top  were  the  thickness 
of  a  lead  pencil  and  three  feet  long.  My  guess  would  be  Shite- 
pokes.  Mr.  Hale  told  me  the  nest  had  been  there  several  years. 
The  Cuckoos  spread  a  handful  of  their  fine  twig  nest  material  in 
the  bottom,  pulled  a  few  dry  pussy-tails  from  the  willows  and 
they  were  ready  for  nesting.  I  photographed  the  nest  when 
it  had  three  big  pale  greenish-blue  lusterless  eggs  in  it,  so  it  made 
a  most  interesting  picture. 

Possibly  from  making  use  of  abandoned  nests,  as  in  this  case, 
the  Cuckoo  has  some  of  its  bad  reputation.  On  Mr.  Black's 
lease,  in  the  past  five  years,  I  have  seen  perhaps  a  dozen  different 
Cuckoo  nests,  photographing  many  of  them.  In  a  little  red 
haw-bush,  not  three  feet  from  the  ground,  Mr.  Black  found  the 
lowest  of  these  nests  and  the  most  characteristic.  It  was  a  mere 
handful  of  twigs,  loosely  laid  flat  on  seemingly  the  slightest 
foundation,  and  dropped  into  the  numerous  interstices  were 
maple  blossoms  for  lining. 

In  all  about  half  a  dozen  of  the  most  beautiful  nests  were  re- 
corded because  they  contained  an  unusual  number  of  eggs  or  for 
a  reason  which  seemed  to  me  good.  I  worked  for  days  around 
half  a  dozen  more  containing  young  birds  up  to  the  day  of  de- 
parture. In  all  that  time  I  never  saw  a  hint  of  droppings  on  or 
around  the  nests,  and  on  all  of  the  dozen  negatives,  which  include 
liberal  portions  of  surroundings,  not  a  soiled  leaf  can  be  seen. 

198 


THE  YELLOW-BILLED  CUCKOO 

I  stated  in  the  introduction  that  in  instances  where  the  young 
were  similar  to  their  elders  and  I  had  secured  studies  of  them 
w7hen  half  grown,  they  would  be  used  in  preference  to  the  grown 
birds,  because  as  a  rule  ten  people  out  of  every  dozen  who  care 
for  birds  prefer  these  unusual  pictures  of  the  young.  Cuckoos 
are  in  this  list,  but  they  should  be  taken  out.  Here  I  do  not  use 
the  pictures  of  the  young  for  that  reason.  I  should  be  most 
proud  to  publish  a  reproduction  of  the  grown  Cuckoo,  as  I  never 
have  seen  one  and  should  regard  the  picture  an  achievement.  I 
have  tried  and  tried,  many  times,  but  so  far  I  always  have 
failed.  The  habits  of  the  bird  make  failure  in  his  case  almost 
certain. 

In  the  first  place,  their  location  makes  a  snap  shot  impossible, 
while  in  the  second  their  nature  makes  a  time  exposure  equally  so. 
They  always  choose  a  secluded  location  where  experience  teaches 
them  that  probably  they  will  be  solitary.  They  select  the 
thickest  place  they  can  find,  where  leaves  grow  in  masses,  for 
their  nest.  They  are  not  so  unfriendly.  One  can  approach 
very  close,  but  in  the  dense  shade  and  surrounded  by  leaves  as 
they  are,  a  picture  is  not  possible  unless  time  could  be  given, 
which  is  not  feasible,  for  the  instant  one  pauses,  the  bird  is  gone 
with  exactly  the  same  motion  with  which  a  big  black  watersnake 
glides  from  bush  to  bush  in  dense  underbrush. 

Jacob  Studer  says  the  Cuckoo  is  a  "slipper;"  the  term  fits 
him  perfectly.  He  is  indeed  a  slipper.  The  word  seems  coined 
to  describe  this  subject.  The  Brown  Thrush  can  not  equal  him 
in  the  graceful  art  of  vanishing  in  deep  shrubbery.  So  I  never 
have  secured  his  likeness. 

The  Cuckoo  always  is  associated  in  my  mind  with  deep, 
thickly  leaved,  cool  places,  where  moss  and  wild  flowers  cover  the 
damp  earth,  where  silence  reigns  and  solitude  is  unbroken.  It  is 
from  such  places  that  the  weather  prophet  booms  his  never-failing 

199 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


TYPICAL   CUCKOO   NEST 


"A  mere  handful  of  twigs,  loosely  laid   flat  on  seemingly   the  slightest   foundation, 
with  maple  blossoms  for  lining" 


predictions  of  rain,  which  for  this  reason  sound  so  startling.  I 
think  of  him  as  very  near  to  the  heart  of  nature,  slipping  grace- 
fully through  his  green  haunts,  coloured  like  the  young  tree-  and 
hush-stems,  and  the  half-faded  and  withered  leaves  around  him. 
Never  a  feather  out  of  place,  and  what  delicate  shades  of  colour 
make  up  his  suit! 

There  is  a  hint  of  leaves  in  the  greenish  satiny  reflections  on 
his  gray  back.  There  is  a  touch  of  cinnamon  brown  on  his  wings. 
His  tail  is  a  work  of  art,  the  two  gray  middle  feathers  being  twice 
the  length  of  the  outer  ones,  which  are  black,  tipped  with  white, 

200 


THE  YELLOW-BILLED  CUCKOO 

and  taper  gradually  to  the  pointed  middle.  Underneath  he  is 
snowy  white,  with  bluish  silver  reflections  on  his  throat.  His  bill 
is  long  and  graceful,  curved  at  the  tip  and  broad  at  the  base,  the 
upper  mandible  grayish  brown  and  the  lower  yellow.  His  hazel 
eyes  are  quick  and  beady-bright,  he  drops  his  yellow  lids  in  a 
roguish  way,  while  his  feet,  slaty  blue  with  two  toes  front  and 
two  back,  are  as  trim,  clean  and  graceful  as  the  remainder  of  him. 
At  the  knee  he  has  the  long  Hawk-like  feathers  of  his  species. 
His  head  and  body  are  slender,  being  beautifully  proportioned. 
When  on  rare  occasions  he  comes  to  the  light  so  the  sun  strikes 
his  greenish  back,  reddish  wings  and  the  delicate  pale  blue  of  his 
throat,  as  an  example  of  exquisite  colouring,  I  should  not  know 
where  to  turn  to  choose  a  bird  that  can  surpass  him. 

This  is  a  treat  one  rarely  has,  for  he  keeps  in  the  underbrush. 
Where  that  fails  him,  he  interrupts  his  flight  at  every  small  tree. 
On  the  ground  he  seems  at  a  loss  to  use  his  feet  with  ease  and 
trails  his  wings  and  erects  his  tail  in  a  comical  manner.  He  is 
always  eating;  a  spider  here,  a  larva  there,  and  caterpillars  all  the 
time.  He  is  provided  with  a  flexible  gizzard,  lined  with  hair, 
which  makes  possible  the  eating  of  this  worm  which  is  rapidly 
destroying  our  fruit;  so  a  Cuckoo  is  worth  many  times  his  weight 
in  gold  in  any  orchard. 

Of  all  the  young  birds  I  ever  have  pictured,  a  Cuckoo  is 
my  favourite.  I  can  not  tell  how  exquisite  are  the  colouring  of 
the  fine  silken  throat-feathers  or  the  shades  of  the  back.  The 
big  hazel  eyes,  the  graceful  beak,  the  slender  feet, — the  whole 
baby  immaculate  and  trusting,  tender  and  gentle  of  disposition 
to  surpass  any  birds  I  know.  They  climb  out  of  a  nest  on  your 
fingers  and  all  over  you,  coo  and  peer  as  if  fear  or  distrust  never 
existed.  All  you  have  to  do  to  make  a  study  of  them  any  way 
you  can  think  of  is  to  hold  out  your  hand — they  will  climb  on — 
and  place  them  on  a  branch  face  or  back  to  the  camera.  They 

201 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

will  sit  in  any  position,  and  look  perfect  pictures  of  trust  and 
confidence.  I  always  carry  food  with  me,  so  if  I  am  work- 
ing long  with  young  birds,  and  they  grow  hungry,  as  they  do 
with  amazing  rapidity,  with  a  little  paddle  I  feed  them  a  few 
bites.  I  give  baby  Cuckoos  the  yolk  of  hard-boiled  egg.  When 
feeding  them  I  moisten  the  egg  with  saliva.  They  are  eager  for 
it  and  will  pose  indefinitely  if  they  have  a  bite  once  in  a  while. 

With  Cuckoos  the  whole  process  of  family  affairs  is  individual. 
They  can  confide  four  and  five  nestlings  to  a  piece  of  architecture 
more  rickety  than  a  Dove's  nest.  The  mother  is  erratic  about 
her  laying,  but  begins  incubation  with  the  first  egg.  As  a  result 
the  brood  drags  along,  and  before  the  last  of  the  first  clutch  is 
out  of  the  nest,  eggs  for  the  second  are  deposited.  In  any  event, 
the  babies  leave,  one  a  day.  The  difference  in  their  size  and 
feathering  is  surprising.  I  have  seen  nests  containing  a  brood 
with  one  ready  to  fly,  one  half-feathered,  one  covered  with 
sheathed  feathers,  and  a  freshly  laid  egg. 

Until  the  day  of  quitting  the  nest  Cuckoo  babies  are  the 
funniest  little  fellows  imaginable.  Their  bodies  are  covered  with 
a  tough  leathery  black  skin,  while  each  coming  feather  is  incased 
in  a  black,  pointed  shield.  This  gives  them  the  appearance  of 
porcupines.  If  you  touch  the  nest  at  that  stage  they  draw 
back,  erect  those  spines  and  cry — a  reedy  whine  of  a  cry  that 
is  distressing.  They  know  they  have  no  business  being  touched 
in  that  condition.  When  the  hour  to  leave  the  nest  begins  to 
approach,  in  a  short  time  these  shields  burst  and  the  small 
leathery  black  bird  becomes  a  thing  of  delicately  shaded  silken 
attire  and  assured  tone  of  voice. 

Once  this  sudden  emerging  of  the  Cuckoo  baby  appealed 
to  me  as  so  comical  that  I  made  a  series  from  a  pair  of  nestlings 
to  illustrate  it.  The  birds  hatched  in  a  thorn  thicket  on  the 
river-bank  on  Mr.  Black's  lease.  Two  had  left  the  nest  and  we 

202 


IN  THE  NEST  AT  NINE  A.M.,  AUGUST  FIRST,  1901 


ON  LIMB  BESIDE  NEST  AT  TIIKEE  P.M.,  AUGUST  FIRST,  1901 


THE  YELLOW-BILLED  CUCKOO 

knew  the  others  would  go  the  following  day.  I  arrived  at 
the  lease  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  first  of  August, 
1901,  and  made  my  first  study  of  the  series  reproducing  the  evo- 
lution of  the  Cuckoo.  Not  a  shield  had  opened  on  the  baby,  but 
on  the  elder  a  few  were  breaking  across  the  back  of  the  head  and 
over  the  breast. 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  only  two  or  three  shields 
around  each  eye  were  left  on  the  elder,  while  the  baby  was  almost 
feathered.  Both  of  them  were  clambering  around  on  the  edge 
of  the  nest,  but  settled  down  into  it  that  night  and  were  sheltered 
by  the  mother.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  second 
not  a  shield  was  to  be  seen  on  the  elder,  and  only  a  few  small  ones 
around  the  eyes  of  the  baby. 

At  this  point  in  their  careers  they  climbed  all  over  me  and 
the  thorn -tree,  ate  the  egg,  and  posed  until  I  was  out  of  plates. 
They  were  the  softest  of  plumage  and  the  sweetest  of  disposition 
of  any  young  birds  I  ever  had  handled.  They  had  no  sense  of 
fear  and  made  no  effort  to  fly.  They  did  not  even  stand  up,  lift 
their  wings  and  try  them,  as  do  so  many  young  birds.  Bob  said : 
"Well,  aren't  they  'most  too  good  to  be  true?"  And- they  were. 
I  can  not  guarantee  that  they  would  be  as  good  for  everyone,  but 
if  any  natural-history  devotee  wishes  to  try,  here  is  the  receipt. 

Use  plain  common  sense.  Approach  the  nest  slowly,  and 
when  the  young  begin  to  cry,  imitate  them  so  that  they  will  think 
you  a  kindred  thing.  Always  carry  suitable  food,  and  the  in- 
stant any  baby  opens  his  mouth,  have  ready  your  little  paddle 
well  loaded  with  egg,  quite  moist,  and  drop  the  food  carefully 
into  him.  Then  the  others  will  follow  suit. 

Feed  them  several  times,  with  half  an  hour's  wait  between, 
to  get  them  accustomed  to  you.  Take  them  first  in  the  nest, 
then  if  you  want  to  scatter  them  a  little,  or  to  take  a  pair,  hold 
the  food  out  of  their  reach  and  coax  them  to  it.  If  they  will  not 

207 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

come,  leave  them  alone  until  the  following  day.  When  they  are 
ready  to  desert  the  nest,  they  will  follow  egg,  properly  pre- 
pared. If  you  want  to  set  them  in  some  especial  place,  never 
pick  them  up  and  pull  them  by  main  force.  If  they  are  in  a  nest 
they  will  grip  with  their  feet  and  wreck  it.  If  they  are  on  a  limb 
you  will  almost  pull  the  tender  little  things  in  two.  Slip  your 
fingers  into  the  nest  and  gently  work  them  under  their  feet.  The 
toes  will  clasp  firmly  around  the  fingers,  then  by  moving  slowly, 
avoiding  noise  and  being  gentle  with  them  you  can  do  what 
you  choose. 

I  have  been  told  by  nature  workers  and  read  in  many  books 
that  it  was  impossible  to  take  a  young  bird  from  the  nest,  put  it 
back,  and  have  it  remain.  I  should  not  advise  anyone  lacking 
bird  sense  and  years  of  experience  to  try  it;  but  I  have  done  it  all 
my  life,  and  never  once  have  I  failed  to  put  back  a  young  bird 
taken  from  a  nest,  and  it  always  remained.  This  may  be  due  to 
the  fact  that  I  never  try  to  lift  a  baby  from  a  nest  unless  it  knowrs 
me  and  will  accept  food  from  me,  so  I  am  sure  I  can  manage  it. 
I  should  not  dream  of  walking  up  to  a  nest  of  young  birds  and  at- 
tempting to  touch  them,  without  preliminary  acquaintance.  Of 
course  they  would  jump,  even  if  they  were  not  ready  to  go  for  days ! 

If  anyone  having  a  prejudice  against  the  Cuckoo  will  enter 
its  dim,  leafy  haunts,  make  friends  with  it  until  he  learns  at  first 
hand  its  habits  and  nature,  cultivate  the  young  to  the  handling 
point,  and  come  away  without  being  a  Cuckoo  enthusiast,  he  is  a 
very  queer  person. 

In  June  of  1906,  after  this  book  was  with  its  publishers,  Mr. 
Black  said  to  me:  "There  is  a  Cuckoo  nest  you  should  see  on  the 
Aspy  place." 

"I  have  more  Cuckoo  nests  now  than  I  ever  can  use,"  I 
answered. 

"But  this  is  different,"  insisted  Bob. 

208 


THE  YELLOW-BILLED  CUCKOO 

"Different  in  what  way?"  I  questioned. 

"Two,"  replied  Bob.  "This  pair  has  fixed  over  that  Robin- 
iiest  that  was  in  the  thicket  before  the  Cabin  last  year.  It  is  so 
close  the  ground  you  can  take  it  from  a  tripod,  and  one  egg  is 
fully  one-fourth  larger  than  any  of  the  others.  Doesn't  that 
tempt  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "It  tempts  me  to  try 'just  one  time  more  to 
make  a  study  of  a  brooding  Cuckoo.  I  never  before  had  a  nest 
where  I  could  work  on  it  from  the  ground.  That  is  half  the 
battle.  Then  the  plum-tree  the  Robin-nest  was  in  is  on  the 
edge  of  the  thicket  near  the  Cabin.  The  light  is  right  in  the  morn- 
ing. You  have  been  going  within  a  few  yards  of  it  for  water  three 
and  four  times  a  day  so  the  birds  must  have  become  accustomed 
to  you  while  they  were  repairing  the  nest  and  depositing  the  eggs. 
If  you  want  to  do  something  for  the  good  of  the  cause,  educate 
Mother  Cuckoo  until  you  can  go  where  I  would  want  to  set  a 
camera  without  once  causing  her  to  desert." 

"I'll  do  it!  "said  Bob. 

"You'll  do  it!"  I  jeered.     "Yes,  it  will  be  so  easy!" 

I  had  as  nearly  given  up  photographing  a  grown  Cuckoo  as  I 
ever  give  up  any  bird  of  my  territory.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
busiest  and  the  most  aggravating  season  of  field  work  I  ever  had 
experienced  on  account  of  constant  June  rains,  and  I  confess  I 
forgot  the  Cuckoo  and  did  not  even  go  to  see  her.  A  few  days 
later  Bob  came  to  me. 

"I  can  go  within  fifteen  feet  of  that  Cuckoo  and  make  as 
many  motions  as  you  would  to  take  a  picture,"  he  said,  "and 
she  sticks!" 

It  would  have  been  impolite  to  tell  so  old  and  trusted  a  friend 
to  my  work  that  I  could  not  believe  him,  but  I  scarcely  could. 
Taking  a  tripod  I  drove  east  to  the  Aspy  farm  at  once.  It  was 
about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

209 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

The  old  cabin  around  which  a  brood  of  rosy,  happy  children 
once  romped  now  stood  doorless,  windowless,  floorless  and  de- 
serted, across  the  road  from  the  orchard  where  so  many  highly- 
prized  studies  had  been  obtained,  and  beside  the  open,  sunny 
clover  field  of  the  Bobolink.  What  once  had  been  a  front  yard 
that  was  a  gentle  little  woman's  pride  and  care  now  answered  no 
description  save  thicket.  A  big  cottonwood  in  one  corner  had 
thrown  up  a  thousand  rank  sprouts;  so  had  cherry,  peach  and 
plum  trees.  Cabbage  and  bride  roses  had  spread  to  masses; 
honeysuckle,  creeper  and  grape-vine  clambered  everywhere, 
while  striped  grass  and  da}T  lilies  filled  the  interstices. 

The  path  Hob  travelled  to  water  his  horse  was  worn  smooth, 
and  following  it  around  the  bushes  to  the  well  I  could  see  a 
new  trail  leading  through  knee-deep  grass  between  the  thicket 
and  the  Cabin.  A  few  steps  brought  me  in  sight  of  the  nest. 
The  location  was  even  lower  than  I  remembered  it,  and  while 
the  plum-tree  really  belonged  to  the  thicket  it  stood  on  the  very 
edge  adjoining  the  clover  field  and  the  Cabin.  The  clipping  of 
three  little  twigs  would  be  all  that  was  necessary  to  secure  the 
best  light  there  could  be  on  the  beautiful  brooding  bird. 

She  was  of  the  black-bill  variety.  The  instant  she  saw  me  I 
paused  and  waited  a  long  time.  Then  slowly,  and  with  greater 
caution  than  I  ever  before  used,  I  advanced  until  I  stood  at  the 
place  where  Bob's  trail  stopped.  There  the  tripod  was  cautiously 
set  up.  Then  slipping  off  a  long  gray  cravenette,  rolling  it  up 
and  placing  it  as  I  would  a  camera  I  went  through  every  motion 
necessary  to  make  a  study  of  her.  She  watched  me  steadily, 
but  never  moved.  Had  I  brought  a  camera,  had  light,  and  the  in- 
tervening twigs  been  removed,  she  could  have  been  photographed 
then.  A  little  clipping  was  imperative,  so  thinking  it  over  I 
decided  that  she  would  return  to  her  nest  in  the  evening  sooner 
than  in  the  morning,  when  she  would  have  left  once  to  bathe  and 

210 


THE  YELLOW  BILLED  CUCKOO 


PROVING    THAT    MOTHER    CUCKOO    WOULD    BROOD    WHILE    I    WORKED    BEHIND    HER 


drink.  I  went  back  to  the  carriage,  brought  my  clippers  and  ap- 
proached the  nest  again,  as  cautiously  as  before.  She  left  when 
I  was  close  ten  feet  from  her.  With  all  possible  speed,  cutting 
not  a  twig  that  was  not  necessary,  I  cleared  the  foreground  and 
hurried  away. 

That  night  the  nervous  strain  was  so  intense  I  could  not  sleep. 
The  following  morning  I  was  at  the  Cabin  as  early  as  there  was 
light  and  tried  to  approach  the  nest  with  tripod  and  camera.  At 
fifteen  feet  Mother  Cuckoo  simply  vanished.  There  I  stood  sick 
with  disappointment.  The  previous  evening  had  made  me  too 
sure.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  vanish  myself.  Thinking 
it  over  I  realized  in  bitterness  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  go  early  or 

211 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

try  to  approach  her  so  soon  after  she  had  been  from  the  nest  for 
her  morning  exercise.  Late  that  afternoon  I  returned.  The 
light  was  directly  in  the  face  of  the  lens  in  case  I  had  a  chance  to 
set  up  a  camera,  but  I  wanted  to  accustom  her  to  the  process. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  used  an  hour  to  go  from  the  well  to  a  spot 
as  close  the  nest  as  possible.  I  never  wanted  to  make  a  study  of 
a  bird  more,  and  so  worked  in  greater  trepidation,  and  with 
caution  that  I  never  before  employed  with  any  subject.  That 
shy,  slipping,  deep  wood  thing — if  I  only  could  reproduce  her! 
She  allowed  me  to  set  up  the  camera,  and  focus  on  her,  so  I 
shaded  the  lens,  made  a  time  exposure  and  left  without  causing 
her  to  desert.  That  night  I  made  up  lost  sleep,  for  I  felt  that 
"I  had  the  hang  of  it  now  and  could  do  it  again." 

The  following  morning,  instead  of  going  early,  I  waited  until 
eleven  o'clock,  which  was  as  late  as  I  dared  risk  the  light;  then 
with  the  same  deliberation  and  caution  I  approached  her  again 
and  made  three  exposures,  each  time  slipping  the  camera  slightly 
closer.  She  sat,  as  brooding  tree  birds  always  do,  on  the  point  of 
her  breast.  Her  tail  was  toward  the  lens  and  her  head  at  the 
farthest  side  of  the  nest.  That  was  not  a  position  I  would  have 
chosen,  but  it  was  a  very  good  omen  that  she  would  stay  when  she 
had  her  back  toward  me.  Had  she  brooded  facing  me,  she 
would  have  been  compelled  to  make  an  impulse  in  my  direction 
in  order  to  reach  the  deep  shrubbery,  which  she  would  not  have 
liked  to  do. 

The  day  after  I  went  an  hour  earlier,  moved  up  to  ten  feet, 
and  exposed  two  more  plates  in  the  same  attitude.  The  follow- 
ing morning  she  was  in  a  beautiful  position,  sidewise  toward  the 
lens,  showing  her  outline  from  beak  to  tip  in  one  elegant  sweep, 
her  black  bill,  her  red-rimmed  eye,  and  the  exquisite  shadings 
of  her  silvery  throat  and  the  bronze  of  her  back  and  wings.  She 
was  all  of  twelve  inches  in  length.  I  set  my  teeth  hard  to  keep 

212 


THE  YELLOW-BILLED  CUCKOO 

my  heart  from  jumping  from  my  mouth  while  I  exposed  a  twenty- 
six  plate  for  the  fiftieth  of  a  second.  Then  I  took  it  over  at  a 
twenty-fifth,  for  fear  the  first  exposure  might  have  been  short. 
And  there  she  sat! 

At  my  feet  lay  a  plate-holder  that  fits  inside  my  camera. 
There  were  more  time-plates  in  it.  Should  I?  With  all  deliber- 
ation I  turned  the  camera  front  toward  me,  inserted  an  enlarging 
lens  and  turned  it  back.  Then  almost  breathlessly,  if  anyone 
wants  excitement!  I  began  walking  that  tripod  toward  her. 
First  I  would  reach  through  under  the  camera,  and  tilting  it 
back  a  little,  set  the  front  leg  forward  six  inches,  then  each  of  the 
side  ones  in  turn.  At  last  I  was  so  close  I  had  to  use  the  extension 
front  almost  full-length  to  get  her  in  focus,  but  she  never  flinched 
as  the  shining  big  glass  eye  came  sliding  toward  her.  If  she  were 
frightened  she  gave  none  of  the  usual  signs,  for  she  crowded  no 
lower  in  the  nest,  nor  did  she  plaster  her  feathers  any  tighter  to 
her  body.  She  brooded  lightly,  easily  and  appeared  exactly  as 
she  did  before  the  camera  ever  was  placed  near  her. 

When  the  first  exposure  was  made  the  sun  was  shining  brightly. 
One  little  spot  of  light  struck  the  top  of  her  head  and  another 
her  shoulder.  I  inserted  a  second  plate,  lengthened  the  exposure 
and  waited  as  motionless  as  possible  for  over  fifteen  minutes, 
until  a  cloud  I  could  see  coming  up  obscured  the  sun  enough  to 
wipe  out  those  spots  of  light.  Then  came  the  exposure  I  had 
coveted  for  years,  the  picture  used  as  the  frontispiece  to  this 
book;  but  my  fingers  are  crowding  on  the  keys  of  my  typewriter 
in  my  haste  to  acknowledge  that  I  owe  it  entirely,  as  I  owe  so 
many  of  my  best  studies,  to  the  kindness  of  Bob. 

I  knew  of  no  way  to  better  that  latest  exposure,  so  I  inserted  a 
fresh  plate,  stepped  up  beside  the  camera  and  said  to  the  Cuckoo: 
"  I  want  a  study  of  your  nest  showing  your  big  egg  now.  Won't 
you  leave,  girlie?"  She  made  no  movement  to  go.  One  more 

213 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

step  brought  my  face  level  with  her.  I  lifted  my  hand  and  gently 
stroked  her  wing.  Then  she  stood  in  the  nest  and  looked  down 
to  see  what  was  there,  exactly  as  a  brooding  hen.  I  gave  her  the 
slightest  push  so  she  hopped  to  the  edge  of  the  nest.  That 
broke  the  spell  of  the  brooding  fever  which  had  bound  her  and 
she  was  lost  in  the  thicket.  I  would  have  given  much  to  recall 
her,  for  the  first  nestling  was  struggling  through  the  shell.  That 
explained  her  conduct.  I  had  approached  her  at  precisely  the 
psychological  moment,  when,  knowing  she  had  not  been  hanned 
previously,  she  would  stay.  There  was  no  use  for  a  study  of  a 
nest  with  so  small  a  bird  in  it  so  I  removed  my  camera  without 
waiting  to  close  it  or  take  it  down.  Before  driving  away  I  took 
a  last  peep.  She  had  returned  to  the  nest  and  was  settling  to 
brood  again. 


READY    FOR    THE    MERCIES    OF   A    WORLD    NONE    TOO    TENDER 

214 


MALE   WREN   EMPTYING   CLOACA   OF   YOUNG 


CHAPTER  XVI 

House  Wren:     Troglodytes  Aedon 

IN    BIRD-HOUSES 

FROM  their  continu- 
ous strongly  exhibited 
preference  for  homes 
close  or  beneath  the  shel- 
ter of  men,  these  birds, 
as  no  others,  have  be- 
come the  birds  of  the 
home.  I  cannot  recol- 
lect one  summer  of  my 
childhood  when  the  front 
door  of  a  Wren's  house 
failed  to  be  a  knot-hole 
in  the  weather  boarding 
over  our  kitchen  door,  while  the  last  perching  place  on  their 
going  to,  and  the  first  of  their  coining  from,  their  entrance  was  an 
ornamental  acorn  on  the  top  of  the  pump.  Each  nesting  season 
my  mother  sternly  threatened  should  be  their  last,  as  every  year 
they  carried  much  new  material;  because  the  knot-hole  was  so 
small,  they  dropped  many  twigs,  much  grass,  weed-stalks,  and 
many  feathers  before  our  door.  During  their  building  time,  as  a 
protection  to  them,  I  spent  much  of  my  time  on  the  back  porch 
sweeping  away  the  debris  they  dropped  at  the  entrance,  so  that 
my  mother  seldom  saw  the  worst  of  it.  As  the  years  passed,  I 

217 


MOTHER  WREN  CARRYING  WORM  TO  YOUNG 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

noticed  how  she  protected  the  birds;  how  often  and  proudly  she 
called  the  attention  of  visitors  to  the  beauty,  activity,  and  musi- 
cal ability  of  her  tiny  tenants,  so  I  came  to  realize  that  her  threat 
to  nail  the  hole  shut  was  caused  by  momentary  annoyance; 
if  anyone  really  had  driven  away  the  Wrens,  there  would  have 
been  serious  trouble  at  our  house. 

Any  knot-hole  around  a  house,  or  outbuilding,  or  small  hollow 
in  a  tree,  any  kind  of  box  you  could  mention,  tin  can,  or  gourd, 
will  serve  them.  They  will  fill  a  box  designed  for  Bluebirds 
with  twigs  one  never  would  imagine  they  could  carry,  build  their 
snug,  soft  nest  of  feather-lined  grass  and  then  wall  up  the  large 
opening  with  protruding  twigs  until  neither  Bluebird  nor  Sparrow 
can  force  entrance.  Householders  often  tell  each  other  of  the 
queer  places  in  which  they  have  found  Wren  nests.  Quite  the 
most  peculiar  of  my  experience  was  a  sprinkling  can.  A  woman 
I  knew  inverted  it  in  the  crotch  of  a  tree  to  drain  after  watering 
her  flowers.  When  she  next  wanted  the  can,  she  found  it  filled 
with  twigs,  perfectly  full,  and  occupied  by  a  Wren,  so  she  wired 
it  in  its  position  and  bought  a  new  sprinkler.  A  man  once  told 
me  of  forgetting  his  coat  hanging  over  a  fence  rider  and  finding  a 
Wren  nest  in  the  pocket  when  he  went  to  bring  it,  the  following 
day. 

The  only  nest  I  ever  reproduced  of  hundreds  that  have  sur- 
rounded my  habitation  all  my  life,  was  in  a  section  of  hollow  tree 
I  had  set  up  on  our  grape-arbour  for  Bluebirds.  The  place 
abounded  in  boxes  especially  designed  for  Wrens,  but  each  year, 
straight  to  the  Bluebird  box  went  the  first  pair,  leaving  the  Wren 
boxes  for  those  coming  later.  So  one  year,  before  their  arrival, 
I  set  up  the  Bluebird  box  and  wired  it  in  place,  instead  of  nailing, 
lightly  fastening  the  roof.  When  I  felt  by  the  best  count  I  could 
keep  that  the  hen  had  finished  laying  and  was  brooding,  I  care- 
fully lifted  down  the  box  while  she  was  from  home,  and  removed 

218 


HOUSE  WREN 

the  lid.  The  bottom  of  the  box  was  packed  with  a  mass  of  twigs, 
enough  drawn  through  the  opening  to  block  the  passage  of  any 
larger  bird,  while  on  the  top  of  these,  at  the  back  of  the  house 
sat  the  round,  grassy,  feather-lined  nest. 

The  feathers  so  arched  and  enclosed  it  that  I  had  to  bend 
them  back  to  picture  any  part  of  the  interior.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  had  touched  the  nest  of  a  Wren,  so  unless  you  are  well 
versed  in  Wren  history  you  can  not  imagine  my  surprise.  The 
eggs  were  very  round,  perhaps  white  for  a  background,  but  com- 
pletely sprinkled  with  pinkish,  brownish  mottling,  while  I  thought 
them  enormous,  for  the  size  of  the  bird ;  and  this  you  will  scarcely 
credit,  yet  if  you  take  an  enlarging  glass  and  count  carefully  you 
can  see  most  of  them,  for  there  were  nine.  I  tried  to  arrange 
them  so  all  would  show,  but  the  nest  was  so  round  they  would 
roll  together,  while  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  finish  and  replace  the  nest 
before  the  mother  bird  returned  to  join  the  father,  who  was 
angrily  scolding  me  and  constantly  darting  at  my  head.  He  was 
quite  as  pugnacious  as  any  Jay  I  ever  worked  around,  so  I  made 
two  hasty  exposures,  then  closed  and  replaced  the  house.  As  far 
as  I  could  see  the  mother  did  not  know  it  had  been  moved;  she 
entered  with  no  hesitation  on  her  return  and  settled  to  brooding, 
while  she  did  not  come  out  again  that  forenoon.  None  of  the 
other  boxes  were  ever  touched. 

I  fully  intended  to  open  this  box,  make  friends  with  the  young 
and  try  to  take  their  pictures  as  I  did  those  of  other  young  birds; 
but  when  I  thought,  dating  from  the  beginning  of  food  carrying, 
that  it  was  nearly  time  to  begin,  I  was  called  from  home  on  busi- 
ness; when  I  returned  the  nest  was  empty.  So  I  have  no 
studies  of  the  young,  which  must  be  too  cunning  for  words,  if 
they  are  reproductions  in  miniature  of  their  elders. 

The  Wren  has  so  many  endearing  qualities  one  can  scarcely 
enumerate  all  of  them.  He  is  a  beautiful  little  bird,  having  a 

219 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

back  of  bright,  strong  brown,  touched  with  deeper  bandings 
almost  black  and  white;  his  mottled  breast  more  grayish,  his  eyes 
beady  black,  very  large  from  long  ages  of  being  nestled  in  the 
dark,  bright  like  those  of  a  squirrel.  The  female  is  similar 
to  the  male,  possibly  a  trifle  lighter  in  colour,  both  active  as  if 
jointed  with  springs  of  fine  wire  that  keep  forever  setting  them 
off.  They  fly  constantly  in  building,  while  if  all  nests  contain 
nine  eggs,  the  reason  they  work  ceaselessly  in  feeding  is  apparent. 
They  constantly  chatter  and  sing  about  the  business  of 
living. 

Possibly  some  recorder  of  bird  song  has  reproduced  their 
notes;  I  never  have  seen  such  an  attempt,  I  would  as  soon  try  to 
put  the  gurgle  of  a  brook  on  the  staff  as  the  notes  of  a  Wren. 
The  female  talks  volubly;  the  male  has  two  periods  of  concert 
work;  the  first  on  his  arrival,  which  occurs  several  days  before 
the  hen  makes  her  appearance.  He  comes  and  spends  the  time 
going  in  and  out  every  available  location,  often  starting  several 
different  nests,  so  she  is  sure  to  be  pleased  with  some  one  of  them 
on  her  arrival.  As  he  works  he  sings,  alternating  twigs  and  song. 
His  real  concert  comes  while  the  female  is  brooding.  Then  he 
perches  close  his  home,  often  on  the  ridgepole  or  doorstep,  and 
for  an  hour  at  a  time,  once  in  a  stiff  spring  rainfall,  he  sings  out 
his  little  heart.  One  of  my  birds  sang  so  often  on  his  front  stoop 
I  set  up  a  camera  and  reproduced  him  in  full  tide  of  song.  This 
picture  is  one  link  in  the  chain  of  proof  that  birds  part  the  beak 
in  song,  widest  on  the  highest  notes,  exactly  as  do  humans;  not 
"singing  in  the  throat  with  closed  beak"  as  one  of  our  aspirants 
to  fame  as  an  ornithologist  emphatically  states.  All  the  birds 
with  which  I  have  made  friends,  and  carefully  observed  afield, 
open  their  mouths  and  sing,  many  of  them  I  have  pictured  in  the 
act  and  reproduced  in  this  book,  as  the  Cardinal  and  the  Jay;  the 
exception  being  minor  strains,  warbled  to  the  finest  thread  of  a 

220 


HOUSE  WREN 

whisper,  like  some  of  the  thrush  notes  which  prelude  and  close 
their  high  strains  delivered  with  wide  beaks. 

Wrens  are  troglodytae,  and  so  sing  much  like  Mockingbirds, 
Thrushes  and  Cat-birds,  the  difference  being  that  all  these  deliver 
their  melody  in  measures.  The  song  of  the  Wren  resembles  that 
of  the  others  of  the  species  in  a  degree,  but  it  knows  no  measure ; 
it  is  a  bubbling  outpouring  too  difficult  to  record ;  I  judge  from 
the  fact  that  I  never  have  seen  any  records.  It  is  even  more 
liquid  and  fluent  than  that  of  the  Bobolink,  which  has  been  well 
reproduced  by  several  bird  musicians.  The  music  has  no  high 
rating  as  melody,  the  prepossessing  thing  about  it  being  that  it  is 
so  constantly  and  so  happily  delivered.  A  season  at  the  Cabin 
without  the  music  of  a  Wren  would  be  my  "Hamlet  with  Hamlet 
left  out." 

Because  it  is  mercenary,  and  I  am  not,  I  put  their  benefit  to 
man  last.  Consider  this  one  pair,  having  eleven  mouths  in  the 
family,  carrying  one  unceasing  stream  of  worms,  spiders,  grass- 
hoppers, from  first  peep  of  day  to  dark  night,  and  then  try  to 
estimate  what  their  presence  means  on  your  arbour,  or  in  your 
garden,  or  among  your  fruit  trees.  In  feeding  they  do  not  re- 
gurgitate. The  young  take  the  insects  as  gathered  with  the 
stripping  of  wings  and  the  largest  legs  of  grasshoppers,  and  the 
peeling  of  the  hardest  outer  wings  of  beetles.  All  food  I  ever  have 
seen  taken  was  living,  while  they  covered  the  widest  range  of 
worms  and  insects  I  ever  knew  one  pair  of  birds  to  use;  and  the 
very  largest  for  their  size,  as  I  think  you  will  agree  from  these 
pictures  of  my  Wrens,  and  those  I  made  at  Bob's  house  which  are 
the  birds  of  the  oblong  box. 

Bob  had  placed  his  box  on  a  very  high  pole,  so  that  it  would  be 
out  of  the  reach  of  cats.  WThen  the  affairs  of  his  Wren  family 
were  engrossing,  he  became  so  interested  he  asked  me  to  come  and 
take  their  pictures.  They  were  quite  as  attractive  as  he  thought 

223 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

them  and  illustrating  their  benefit  to  man  as  insect  extermina- 
tors splendidly;  so  I  set  up  my  highest  step-ladder  in  front  of  their 
door.  The  box  was  so  high,  I  was  forced  to  stand  on  the  top  of 
the  ladder  and  build  up  the  shelf  to  hold  the  camera. 

The  garden  soil  was  mellow,  the  boxes  erected  for  the  camera 
heavy;  with  my  weight  added  the  back  legs  of  the  ladder  sank 
pitching  me  over  in  a  headlong  fall,  which  wrecked  my  best 
camera,  ruined  one  of  Bob's  finest  plants;  but  did  no  damage  to 
the  Wrens.  They  scolded  me  soundly  for  the  commotion  caused 
by  my  fall. 

These  are  birds  I  would  urge  everyone  to  befriend  in  any  loca- 
tion and  to  attract  to  their  own  grounds  wherever  possible.  They 
are  such  tiny  mites,  so  friendly  and  saucy,  unceasing  singers  of 
song  more  pleasant  than  silence;  beneficial  to  an  extent  that 
places  them  in  the  front  rank  of  birds  worth  courting  until  they 
make  their  home  with  you. 


• 


A    FROG    IN   HIS   THROAT 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  Blue  Heron:   Ardea  Herodias 

IN  THE  GREAT  LAKE  REGIONS 

I  FOUND  this  Blue  Heron  myself,  hunted  him  to  his  favourite 
feeding  grounds  alone,  then  secured  these  studies  of  him,  which 
may  be  the  reason  I  am  so  especially  fond  of  them.  I  was  stop- 
ping at  a  little  boarding-house  on  the  Inland  Route,  and  with 
my  boat  had  access  to  half  a  dozen  lakes  and  rivers  which  make 
up  this  chain.  The  small  river  nearest  us  opened  shortly  into  a 
large  lake.  From  my  room  Blue  Herons  could  be  seen  sweeping 
above  the  water  morning  after  morning,  settling  in  one  spot, 
which  seemed  easy  to  locate.  The  Deacon  probably  had  good 
reason  to  be  nervous  about  my  entering  those  swamps  and 
forests  alone.  But  one  day  he  was  away  trout-fishing;  Molly- 
Cotton  was  trying,  under  the  instruction  of  the  landlady,  to  pre- 
227 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

pare  a  pair  of  deer  horns  for  mounting,  so  I  slipped  away  to  search 
for  the  haunt  of  the  Heron. 

The  row  up  the  river  was  delightful.  For  once  the  veil  of 
nature  was  lifted  everywhere.  I  could  see  as  far  as  my  eyes  could 
penetrate,  while  even  the  water  hid  no  mysteries.  The  air  was 
clear  and  cool,  touched  with  the  odour  of  balsam,  and  sweeping  in 
light  breezes.  The  sky  was  a  great  arch  of  blue,  with  lazy  floating 
clouds;  the  sun  not  too  ardent  in  his  attentions.  On  either  hand 
the  marsh"was  teeming  with  life.  There  were  tracks  beside  the 
water  edge  where  deer  and  bear  came  down  to  drink,  small  water- 
rats  and  beaver  lived  in  the  banks,  and  in  the  rushes  were  Duck, 
Teal,  Plover,  Heron — every  kind  of  northern  water-bird  you 
could  mention.  This  river  was  the  first  of  my  experience  to  give 
up  its  secrets.  The  bed  was  white  sand,  washed  of  every  im- 
purity by  a  swift  current,  while  the  water  was  pure  and  clear.  At 
a  depth  of  twenty  and  even  thirty  feet  I  could  see  every  detail  of 
the  bed. 

I  have  not  time  to  tell  of  its  wonders  and  mysteries  in  mineral 
formation;  its  dainty  growing  vines  and  mosses.  But  the  water 
folk!  If  you  never  saw  such  a  spot  you  can  not  dream  how 
beautiful  it  is.  The  flowers  on  the  bank  or  the  birds  and  butter- 
flies of  the  air  were  not  more  gaily  coloured  than  the  fish  of  that 
little  river.  Every  shade  of  silver  was  striped  and  mottled  with 
green,  yellow,  blue  and  red.  Pike  that  seemed  half  as  long  as  the 
boat  swam  past  or  darted  under  it.  Big  black  bass,  the  kind  that 
wreck  your  tackle  and  keep  it,  swam  lazily  unless  moved  to  a 
sudden  dart  after  small  fry.  There  were  a  few  rainbow  trout, 
innumerable  speckled  perch,  shad,  and  the  most  beautiful  big 
sunfish.  Occasionally  an  eel,  monster  turtles,  sometimes  a  musk- 
rat  and  a  few  water-puppies  came  slowly  into  sight  and  as  slowly 
vanished.  Oh,  I  could  not  row  very  fast  on  that  river!  And  it 
was  no  wonder  Herons  and  Cranes  stalked  with  slowly  lifted  feet 


THE  BLUE  HERON 

beside  those  banks,  no  wonder  Kingfishers  poised  above  that 
water  by  day,  or  that  raccoons  flattened  themselves  and  lay 
immovable  while  they  fished  for  frogs  by  night,  for  all  of  them 
could  see  their  prey  plainly  and  know  exactly  how  to  capture 
it. 

I  pulled  into  the  lake,  took  my  bearings  and  started  toward  the 
point  where  the  Herons  seemed  to  congregate.  On  reaching  it  I 
found  the  remains  of  an  old  saw-mill.  The  shores  of  all  these 
northern  lakes  and  rivers  were  dotted  with  mills  a  few  years  ago. 
There  was  an  oozy  landing-place  on  sawdust  foundation,  while 
the  old  mill  probably  would  collapse  in  the  first  wind-storm.  I 
pulled  the  boat  up  on  the  landing  and  entered  the  mill  which  was 
a  shed,  the  floor  half  covered  with  water.  Many  boards  were 
lacking,  but  enough  were  left  to  shelter  me,  so  quietly  creeping  to 
the  back  end  where  the  mill  had  been  built  over  the  water  on 
purpose  to  float  in  logs,  I  saw  an  interesting  sight. 

The  rushes  had  grown  through  what  formerly  had  been  a 
bed  of  sawdust,  until  they  almost  reached  the  mill.  In  this  rotten 
sawdust  there  seemed  to  be  a  big  white  worm,  of  which  the  Herons 
were  fond,  and  how  they  did  gobble  frogs !  Undoubtedly  the  old 
mill  was  the  attraction  for  both  frogs  and  birds.  The  story  was 
told  in  nature's  plainest  writ.  The  sun  shining  on  the  water- 
soaked  sawdust  raised  a  sweetish,  sappy  odour.  This  odour  at- 
tracted flies  and  other  insects  in  myriads.  The  insects  in  turn 
lured  the  frogs.  The  frogs  made  a  feast  which  called  up  the 
Herons,  while  the  Herons  furnished  subjects  for  my  cameras. 
Inside  the  old  mill,  so  close  I  could  almost  reach  out  and  touch 
the  actors,  I  interpreted  these  "signs." 

Surely  I  am  qualified  to  tell  how  a  Blue  Heron  catches  frogs. 
There  is  no  hunting;  his  prey  comes  to  him.  The  big  birds,  some 
of  them  over  three  feet  in  height,  came  winging  across  the 
lake,  selecting  the  spot  from  which  they  wished  to  fish,  quietly 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

alighting.  After  looking  carefully  around  him,  each  bird  would 
move  several  yards,  stepping  high  and  with  great  care,  flattening 
his  body  and  slipping  between  grasses  often  taller  than  he  was. 
When  he  had  selected  a  fine  location  he  stood  perfectly  still, 
mostly  on  one  foot,  his  long  slender  leg  seeming  so  like  the  cattails 
and  rushes  as  to  be  unnoticed;  folded  his  wings  tight;  drew  in  his 
neck;  pointed  his  bill  at  an  angle  of  about  twenty-three  degrees 
before  him,  and  went  to  sleep — apparently. 

This  was  queer  hunting.  I  wondered  if  it  could  be  possible 
that  those  Herons  left  their  nests  in  the  tall  timber  across  the 
lake,  came  over  there  behind  that  old  mill  and  stood  in  the  water 
among  those  rushes  to  sleep.  The  first  pounce  that  was  made 
straight  in  front  of  me  startled  me  so  that  I  almost  cried  out. 
After  a  lifetime  of  field  work  I  cannot  suppress  a  sort  of  breath- 
less snap  of  an  "Ow,"  when  I  am  surprised.  It  is  a  cry  to  which  a 
bird  rises  every  time.  I  barely  saved  myself.  The  thing  was  so 
unexpected.  There  stood  the  Heron,  a  big  fine  fellow,  the  light 
striking  to  brilliancy  the  white  of  his  throat,  wet  with  dew  from 
the  rushes,  the  deep  steel-blue  of  his  back,  and  bringing  out 
sharply  the  black  on  the  flattened  crest  and  the  narrow  line  down 
the  front  of  his  throat. 

I  had  not  seen  a  frog  climb  to  the  sawdust  in  front  of  the  bird, 
so  intent  was  my  watch  on  him;  so  tremblingly  was  I  setting  up 
my  camera  and  focussing,  in  an  effort  to  get  everything  just  right 
and  avoid  his  seeing  me  slide  the  camera  before  the  opening  be- 
side me.  I  was  wondering  if  he  possibly  could  hear  the  shutter, 
or  if  the  plate  could  be  changed  before  he  did  something  more  in- 
teresting than  sleep,  when  snap!  like  a  machine,  out  darted 
the  Heron's  neck,  clip  went  his  shear-like  beak,  then  it  pointed 
skyward,  crest  flat,  the  frog  was  tossed  around  and  caught  head- 
first— one  snap,  two,  it  was  half-way  down  the  gullet  of  the  bird, 
whose  beak  was  drawn  in,  crest  flared  and  chin  raised,  before  I 

230 


THE  BLUE  HERON 

recovered  from  iny  surprise  enough  to  remember  that  I  held  the 
bulb  in  my  hand  and  must  squeeze  it  to  secure  the  picture. 

Hurriedly  I  shoved  in  the  slide,  whirled  over  the  holder,  set  the 
shutter  and  drew  the  slide  again.  The  bird  had  turned  and  moved 
several  feet  toward  me,  coming  more  in  the  open.  I  set  the  focus 
by  scale  and  snapped  again.  That  time  in  my  eagerness  I  moved 
out  too  far,  he  saw  me  and  away  he  swept,  several  of  his  fellows 
nearest  following.  I  put  away  the  plates  and  tested  my  focus  on 
the  spot  where  he  had  been.  It  seemed  sufficiently  sharp  for  a 
fine  picture.  Developing  the  plate  proved  that  it  was  almost  as 
nice  a  piece  of  work  as  I  could  have  done  if  blest  with  plenty  of 
time. 

Then  I  glanced  over  my  background.  For  a  Heron  picture  it 
scarcely  could  have  been  improved.  The  mill  stood  in  a  small 
bay.  Behind  it  rushes  grew  in  a  tangled  mass,  the  body  of  the 
lake  crept  close  to  them,  out  in  the  water  a  couple  of  runaway 
logs  were  bobbing  in  the  sunlight,  while  in  the  distance  a  far 
shore  showed  faintly.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  keep  me  from 
having  fine  natural-history  pictures.  The  bird  was  dripping  with 
the  heavy  dew  of  the  swamp;  but  if  I  had  reproduced <•  his  head 
sidewise,  with  his  bill  and  one  eye,  and  the  frog  going  down, 
surely  that  would  not  hurt  my  picture.  In  fact,  thinking  it  over, 
it  seemed  to  add  to  the  naturalness  of  it  and  help  portray  the 
damp,  swampy  atmosphere. 

Then  I  heard  voices,  the  splashing  of  water  and  remembered 
that  I  was  alone.  I  caught  up  my  tripod  and  carrying  case, 
tumbled  them  into  my  boat,  pushed  off  and  jumped  in,  not  a 
minute  too  soon.  I  pulled  into  the  lake  barely  in  time  to  miss  a 
crew  of  half  a  dozen  men  coming  around  the  shore  driving  a  log 
float  and  gathering  up  stray  timber.  When  far  away  from  the 
logs  I  put  away  my  paraphernalia,  set  a  small  hand-camera  in 
reach  on  the  seat  before  me  and  started  down  the  fiver. 

231 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

The  day  had  grown  slightly  warmer,  but  that  was  made  up  for 
by  rowing  with  the  current,  for  after  entering  the  river  I  need  not 
pull;  but  by  steering  could  travel  quite  as  fast  as  I  desired.  On 
that  return  trip  my  first  muscalonge  showed  himself.  Really,  in 
the  water  it  appeared  as  long  as  my  boat.  The  fish  must  have 
weighed  fifty  pounds.  It  was  only  a  short  way  in  the  river 
mouth,  bewildered,  no  doubt,  by  the  clear  water,  for  it  turned  al- 
most beneath  my  boat  and  went  back.  A  magnificent  big  fish  it 
was.  My  attention  was  called  to  it  by  the  commotion  caused 
among  small  fish  darting  in  all  directions  to  escape  it. 

On  my  way  back  I  had  a  shot  with  a  small  hand-camera  at  a 
Heron  on  wing,  but  it  was  so  far  away  that  developing  the  plate 
disclosed  only  a  speck  on  the  sky.  I  tried  some  Plover  and  a 
Duck  with  better  results,  but  that  is  another  story.  This  is 
of  the  Blue  Heron,  and  is  one  of  my  best  pieces  of  work,  quite  by 
myself. 


INDIAN    RIVER    PLOVER 


THE   MALE   KINGBIRD    WEARS   A    CROWN   OF    GOLD 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Kingbird:     Tyrdnnus  Tyrdnnus 

IN   ORCHARDS 

BOB  found  the  nest  of  the  King- 
bird through  seeing  the  father  carry- 
ing a  small  white  moth  to  a  branch 
of  the  winesap  in  the  Aspy  orchard . 
When  I  arrived  the  babies  were,  per- 
haps, three  days  old.     I  did  not  feel 
bad  about  this  as  I  had  in  my  nega- 
tive closet  in  the  Cabin  a  good  repro- 
duction of  the  most  attractive  King- 
bird nest  lever  had  seen.     It  was 
built  in  a  small  walnut-tree  on  Bob's 
lease.    Besides  being  the  neatest  and 
most  firmly  built  of  any  Kingbird 
nest  of  my  experience  it  was  deco- 
rated.    There  was  a  liberal  lining  of  wool  gathered  from  fences, 
the  front  of  the  nest  deeply  bordered  with  tufts  of  wool,  part 
from  black  sheep,  the  remainder  from  white;  the  finishing  touch 
being  a  knot  and  drapery  of  cotton  cord,  tucked  into  and  looped 
across  the  wool. 

In  this  dainty  nest  were  three  delicately  coloured  eggs, 
although  the  number  often  runs  to  five,  four  the  average.  The 
eggs  are  as  beautiful  as  those  of  the  Oriole.  They  are  large,  for 
the  size  of  the  bird,  rounder  than  is  common,  deep  cream  colour 
quaintly  touched  with  brownish  markings  as  if  painted  on  with 
a  brush;  between  them  fainter  decorations  of  grayish  lavender. 

235 


FEMALE    KINGBIRD    WATCHING 
CAMERA    WHILE   AT   NEST 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Bob  improvised  his  dummy  camera  from  some  stakes,  an  old 
soap  box  and  a  hen's  nesting  box,  the  day  he  found  the  birds. 
That  night  he  told  me  of  it,  so  I  was  in  the  orchard  early  the 
following  morning;  by  the  size  of  the  birds,  about  the  third  day 
after  they  hatched.  They  were  so  tiny  I  could  not  risk  work  on 
the  nest  for  fear  the  mother  would  become  frightened  and  leave 
the  young  so  long  they  would  chill.  Very  carefully  I  took  down 
the  temporary  tripod  and  substituted  my  highest  step-ladder. 
On  the  workman's  platform  of  this  ladder  I  set  the  soap  box 
lengthwise,  then  bound  it  fast.  I  placed  the  nesting  box  on  that 
and  made  it  secure.  Then  I  went  about  my  business  with  other 
nests  in  the  orchard;  returning  slowly,  always  when  the  elders 
were  at  the  nest,  a  dozen  times  that  day  to  climb  the  step-ladder 
and  go  through  the  motions  of  taking  a  picture.  At  night,  before 
leaving  I  removed  the  ladder  and  boxes  as  I  feared  boys  playing 
at  the  river  would  see  them  and  find  the  nest. 

Two  more  days  I  kept  this  up,  each  time  going  closer  and 
remaining  longer  until  the  old  birds  went  on  with  the  affairs 
of  life,  paying  not  the  slightest  attention  to  me.  The  fourth 
day  I  set  the  camera  atop  the  hen's  nest,  but  it  was  still  too  low 
to  bring  the  Kingbird  family  in  proper  focus,  so  I  added  my  carry- 
ing case  to  the  top  of  the  erection  and  set  the  camera  on  that. 
This  brought  my  improvised  tripod  level  with  my  face,  when  I 
stood  on  the  top  of  the  ladder,  while  the  birds  were  in  exactly 
the  place  I  wanted  them.  After  a  brooding,  and  two  feeding 
exposures,  I  took  down  the  boxes,  moved  up  the  ladder,  and 
covering  the  nest  with  my  hand  began  making  friends  with 
the  tiny  pin-feathery  babies.  Both  old  birds  flew  into  the  tree 
and  came  closer  than  I  thought  they  would,  but  neither  made  a 
sound,  nor  did  the  young.  That  was  enough  for  one  day,  so  I 
went  away,  as  quietly  as  possible. 

Each  day  for  nearly  a  week  this  went  on.  Sometimes  I 

236 


NEST   AND    EGGS   OF   KINGBIRD 


THE  KINGBIRD 

did  not  make  an  exposure  at  all,  merely  worked  around  the  nest, 
taking  the  young  from  it  and  setting  them  on  my  fingers,  or  the 
closest  twigs,  then  with  the  utmost  caution  not  to  frighten  or 
hurt  them  into  the  impulse  to  flight,  I  put  them  back.  By  that 
time  I  had  made  such  friends  with  the  Kingbirds  that  I  began 
taking  people  with  me,  one  at  a  time,  and  leaving  them  under 
the  closest  tree  to  watch  how  I  could  fellowship  with  the  tyrants 
of  the  orchard,  for  that  is  exactly  what  they  were.  The  Vireo 
and  Song  Sparrow  were  sorely  afraid  of  them,  the  Cat-birds 
flew  wildly  when  the  old  Kingbirds  intimated  it  would  be 
better  that  they  should;  the  Doves  and  Brown  Thrush  kept  out 
of  their  way,  the  Blackbirds  never  stopped  to  quarrel,  neither 
did  the  Shrike;  I  marvelled  at  that,  surely  they  are  bigger  and 
stronger;  while  they  have  a  worse  reputation  as  fighters;  but  they 
did  not  fight  the  Kingbirds,  although  their  nest  was  not  far  away 
across  the  road,  and  they  hunted  in  the  orchard.  Without  hesi- 
tation the  Kingbirds  attacked  the  Crows,  flying  above  and  pick- 
ing their  heads  and  eyes,  while  one  day  Molly-Cotton  and  I  saw 
them  chasing  a  big  Hawk  across  the  sky  in  the  same  fearless 
manner. 

That  was  the  day  we  secured  our  great  picture.  While 
making  friends  with  the  old  birds  I  sat  for  hours  under  the  bell- 
flower  where  I  could  see  the  nest  plainest  and  watched  each 
smallest  detail  of  Kingbird  family  life.  I  knew  what  they  fed 
their  young,  how  they  hunted  and  prepared  their  prey,  cleaned 
their  nests,  and  conducted  themselves  toward  each  other.  One 
thing  I  especially  noticed,  because  it  was  of  much  help  to  me  in 
my  work.  As  in  so  many  other  cases  these  birds  each  had  a 
route,  always  the  same,  by  which  they  came  to  and  left  the  nest 
in  feeding.  They  did  most  of  their  hunting  on  the  grasses  of 
the  orchard  often  taking  small  moths  on  wing  in  air.  In  carrying 
food  to  the  young  the  hen  invariably  arose  to  the  tip-top  twig 

239 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

of  the  winesap,  from  there  dropping  to  the  nest.  The  male 
always  flew  to  the  closest  branch  of  the  next  tree,  and  from  there 
sailed  across  to  the  tip  of  the  small  branch  on  which  his  nest  was 
placed,  among  several  leaf  and  fruit-bearing  twigs,  one  apple 
being  directly  beside  and  above  the  cradle.  The  point  of 
the  limb  was  dead  and  dry,  the  tree  being  badly  infested  with 
scale. 

Each  time  he  alighted  there  he  made  a  perfect  picture. 
There  was  nothing  intervening,  clear  sky  background,  while 
as  these  birds  feed  by  regurgitation,  there  was  not  even  a  bug 
in  his  beak,  to  obscure  its  shape  and  cutting.  It  was  not  so 
long  as  a  Robin's,  but  suggested  it.  His  eyes  were  large,  bright, 
strongly  rimmed.  His  back  was  deep  slate  gray,  his  wings  and 
tail  almost  black,  his  tail  deeply  bordered  with  white  at  the  tip, 
also  the  tertiary  wing  feathers  were  white-edged.  His  deep, 
full-feathered  throat  was  very  white,  so  was  his  breast,  gradually 
darkening  to  gray  on  the  underparts.  He  had  a  round  crest  he 
could  erect  at  will,  of  much  the  same  gray  as  his  back  at  the 
feather  tips,  the  remainder  yellow.  This  you  will  scarcely  credit, 
but  in  full  light,  with  crest  erected,  on  his  head  there  was  a  strong 
gleam  of  gold,  and  were  I  painting  him  in  this  position  I  should 
put  it  in. 

Each  time  he  alighted  on  the  twig,  which  was  as  often  as  he 
fed  his  young,  possibly  ten  times  an  hour,  he  displayed  his  every 
attraction.  I  pointed  this  out  to  Molly-Cotton,  then  suggested: 
"As  they  are  such  good  friends  with  me,  and  so  well  accustomed 
to  the  camera,  why  not  move  it  a  few  feet  to  the  west,  directly 
in  line  with  where  it  is,  and  take  his  picture  the  next  time  he 
perches  there?"  "If  he  will  come  in  front  of  it,  we  can  move 
the  camera,"  said  Molly-Cotton.  So  I  staked  off  the  exact  spot 
where  it  should  stand,  then  one  on  each  side  we  placed  the  ladder 
with  its  erection  of  boxes,  put  the  camera  where  I  had  marked 

240 


MOTHER   KINGBIRD   FEEDING   YOUNG   BY   REGURGITATION 


THE  KINGBIRD 

the  top  box  for  it,  and  without  focussing  took  the  long  hose  and 
went  back  to  the  bell-flower  to  wait. 

The  first  time  he  came  he  alighted  as  usual,  but  noticing  that 
the  camera  had  been  shifted  he  slightly  drew  back,  lifting  his 
wings  a  trifle.  At  that  instant,  thinking  he  could  not  possibly 
appear  better  and  might  fly,  I  made  the  exposure.  He  was  du- 
bious, but  as  no  harm  had  come  from  the  camera  previously,  he 
decided  none  would  now,  for  he  studied  it  an  instant  longer,  then 
flew  to  the  nest.  I  was  so  sure  of  the  exposure  I  replaced  the 
camera  and  that  night  developed  the  plate,  which  was  so  perfect 
I  did  not  attempt  to  better  it.  When  I  had  this  study,  the  old 
birds,  both  male  and  female  in  every  position  I  could  think  of, 
back,  front  and  side,  brooding,  and  in  the  very  act  of  regurgitat- 
ing food  and  emptying  the  cloaca,  I  began  on  the  young. 

They  were  easy.  When  the  feathers  were  developed  enough 
that  the  babies  would  appear  well,  I  began  by  using  a  second 
step-ladder  to  reach  the  nest,  carrying  in  my  pocket  the  long 
hose  bulb  from  the  camera  on  the  other  ladder.  Reproducing 
them  consisted  of  climbing  the  small  ladder,  placing  them  as  I 
chose  and  then  squeezing  the  bulb.  Three  showed  nicely  on 
the  edge  of  the  nest,  the  apple  taking  the  space  for  the  fourth, 
so  I  set  him  on  the  limb  beside  the  nest.  When  I  had  made  all 
the  exposures  I  thought  I  ever  should  want  of  the  grown  and 
young  Kingbirds  in  the  nest,  I  coveted  one  more  picture  of  the 
young  the  last  day  before  they  would  take  flight.  This  fell  on 
Sunday,  as  I  figured  their  history.  I  was  afraid  to  wait  until 
Monday,  for  they  appeared  so  large  I  thought  the  impulse  to 
flight  might  come  at  any  time,  while  my  studies  of  these  birds  were 
so  perfect  I  felt  I  could  not  miss  this  crowning  one,  also  I  would 
be  forced  to  make  a  business  trip  Monday.  I  thought  and  still 
think  I  shall  be  forgiven,  for  I  drove  to  the  orchard  Sunday  after- 
noon, set  up  and  focussed  a  camera  on  a  scraggly  dead  limb  of  a 

243 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

brush-heap  of  apple-tree  trimmings,  three  tree  locations  distant 
from  the  winesap,  then  went  to  the  nest  and  took  from  it  all  the 
babies,  carrying  them  in  the  crown  of  an  old  hat.  Then  in  the 
range  on  which  I  had  focus  I  set  one  baby  full  front,  one  three 
quarters,  one  side,  and  one  showing  as  much  back  as  possible,  and 
made  several  exposures.  While  I  worked  both  old  Kingbirds 
waited  on  their  favourite  perches  watching  me.  Neither  took 
flight  for  any  reason  or  made  a  sound.  When  I  had  finished  I 
replaced  the  babies  in  the  nest  and  left  them,  thinking  they  surely 
would  go  the  following  morning.  As  I  was  compelled  to  leave 
home  early  Monday  I  cautioned  Bob  to  watch  for  me.  His 
report  was  that  the  first  of  the  young  had  left  the  nest  at  ten 
o'clock  Tuesday. 

These  are  of  our  most  pugnacious  and  tyrannical  small  birds. 
I  recall  no  others  so  fearless  in  attacking  birds  as  large  by  com- 
parison as  Chicken  Hawks,  even ;  yet  in  a  short  time,  by  moving 
quietly,  remaining  near  them,  using  merely  the  precautions  sug- 
gested by  common  sense,  I  secured  these  pictures  of  them  during 
their  nesting  time,  in  their  own  location,  posed  exactly  as  they 
naturally  placed  themselves.  In  handling  the  young,  I  first 
covered  the  nest  with  my  hand,  then  slipping  in  a  finger  worked  it 
under  the  young  bird  I  wished  to  make  friends  with  until  I  found 
its  feet  and  got  it  to  grip  as  it  would  on  a  twig.  Then  slowly 
and  cautiously  I  raised  it,  gently  removing  my  hand  from  the 
nest  to  cover  the  bird  and  so  hovering  it  until  I  wanted  to  place 
it  on  a  twig.  Then  I  would  hook  its  back  toe  over  the  limb, 
slowly  rolling  my  finger  forward  until  its  front  toes  would  close 
over  the  twig,  still  keeping  it  covered  until  it  was  contentedly 
settled.  In  putting  them  back  I  began  at  the  long  middle  front 
toe  and  rolled  my  finger  under  each  foot,  all  the  time  hovering 
the  bird  with  the  other  hand,  then  replacing  them  in  the  nest  in 
the  same  manner.  It  required  all  of  half  an  hour  to  take  these 

244 


THE  KINGBIRD 

four  birds  from  their  nest,  and  quite  as  long  to  settle  them  as  I 
wanted  them,  but  I  did  it  repeatedly,  even  carrying  them  from 
their  tree  to  the  brush-heap.  Never  once  did  I  hurt  one  of  them 
so  that  it  chirped  or  made  a  sound,  else  the  old  birds  would  have 
called  excitedly  and  spoiled  everything.  The  whole  battle  in 
handling  young  birds  is  to  avoid  the  first  sound  of  a  cry  on  their 
part,  to  prevent  the  least  fright  or  hurt  that  will  cause  an  impulse 
toward  flight.  If  they  can  be  taken  from  the  nest  the  first  time 
and  replaced,  the  remainder  is  easy.  I  have  done  this  all  my 
life,  but  I  was  born  with  an  extra  sense  pertaining  to  field  work,  I 
have  unlimited  patience  and  time  to  spend  on  a  series  I  desire; 
so  I  secure  such  studies  as  this  book  contains  without  ever  moving 
a  nest,  or  injuring  young  birds,  or  driving  away  the  old  ones  from 
their  location.  To  anyone  desiring  to  do  like  work,  these  are 
the  only  possible  methods  to  pursue.  The  instant  a  nest  is 
moved,  the  old  birds  may  go  to  it,  but  never  naturally,  nor  will 
the  nest  be  natural,  while  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  take  a  young 
bird  in  the  fingers  and  lift  it  from  the  nest,  as  it  will  grip  the 
bottom,  bringing  it  up  with  it,  struggle  until  it  cries  out  with 
pain,  and  become  so  frightened  that  it  throws  the  other  young 
and  the  elders  into  panic. 

Because  these  notably  pugnacious  birds  responded  so  beauti- 
fully to  my  advances  and  we  became  such  fast  friends,  I  grew 
very  fond  of  them.  They  are  the  bravest  birds  of  their  size, 
they  love  homes  and  orchards  for  nesting  locations,  they  are 
beautiful  perching  or  on  wing,  they  are  invaluable  in  any  orchard 
or  meadow,  taking  their  food  on  wing,  so  that  they  exterminate  a 
number  of  pests  not  molested  by  other  birds.  They  dart  from 
high  perches  gathering  small  moths  and  picking  worms  from 
grass-blades  until  they  have  all  they  wish  to  take  at  one  time, 
then  fly  to  the  nest  and  regurgitate  the  food  for  the  young. 

They  are  cheerful  and  rather  constant  talkers,  what  they  say 

245 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

is  interesting,  but  if  you  ever  read  that  they  utter  musical  notes 
or  make  any  sound  approaching  song,  lay  the  statement  to  over- 
enthusiasm  on  the  part  of  the  writer.  If  any  male  bird  ever 
sings,  he  does  at  mating  and  nesting  time.  The  illustration  of 
this  chapter  is  only  a  small  part  of  the  Kingbird  history  I  have 
recorded  photographically,  while  I  have  been  familiar  with  the 
bird  all  my  life.  The  year  following  the  taking  of  these  pictures  a 
pair  of  Kingbirds  came  into  the  village,  courted,  nested  and 
hatched  their  young  in  a  bell-flower  apple-tree  at  the  Cabin, 
opposite  the  back  door,  so  that  I  saw  them  constantly  and 
heard  most  of  the  sounds  they  made.  I  listened  by  the  hour 
while  the  courting,  building  and  brooding  was  in  progress,  but 
I  heard  neither  musical  notes  nor  connected  song.  When  it 
comes  to  music  they  belong  in  the  same  class  with  the  Shrike. 


KIXGBIRD   YOUNG 


240 


NEST    OF    DOVES    OX   THE    FENCE   OF    ASPY   ORCHARD 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  Mourning  Dove:     Zenaidum  Macroura 

IN    DEEP    WOOD 

THIS  was  one  of  Mr.  Black's  original  forty  nests.  It  was  the 
most  beautiful  Dove  nest  of  all  my  experience.  Five  rods  south 
of  the  Cat-birds,  on  the  same  fence,  the  Doves  had  located.  They 
had  laid  a  foundation  unusually  sure  on  the  flat  surface  of  a  top 
rail,  where  the  rails  cross  at  a  corner.  Almost  every  day  in  field 
work  I  wish  that  colour  photography  had  come  into  actual, 
practical,  every-day  use.  This  structure  and  its  surroundings 
made  me  wish  for  colour  more  fervently  than  usual. 

The  fence  was  very  old,  in  fact  such  a  deep  steel-gray  as  to 
be  almost  black,  veiled  in  a  delicate  mist  of  lint  and  well  covered 
with  crimply  lichens  running  the  entire  colour  scheme  of  gray  and 
green.  The  nest,  as  you  will  observe,  is  not  typical.  These 
birds  are  famous  for  their  careless  architecture,  a  handful  of 

249 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

coarse  twigs  artlessly  laid  in  any  thick  shrubbery  or  evergreen 
being  the  rule.  Frequently  I  have  been  able  to  tell  whether  a 
Dove's  nest  contained  eggs  or  young  birds  by  standing  under  it 
and  looking  through  the  bottom. 

This  nest  was  built  of  fine  material,  and  no  doubt  to  make  it 
inconspicuous,  everything  used  in  its  construction  harmonized 
with  the  shades  of  colour  on  the  rails,  until  at  a  distance,  seen  on  a 
level  with  the  rail,  it  appeared  like  a  knot  in  the  wood.  There 
were  two  delicate,  opalescent  white  eggs  in  it,  as  is  the  rule,  while 
all  around  and  overhanging  it  was  a  thicket  of  maple  sprouts. 

I  have  made  studies  of  Doves'  nests  in  March,  when  there  was 
a  skiff  of  snow  on  the  ground,  all  the  way  through  the  spring  and 
until  July,  in  every  location,  and  of  every  construction  imagin- 
able, but  this  was  the  most  perfect  picture  and  the  most  individ- 
ual piece  of  architecture  I  yet  had  seen.  I  always  have  had  a 
good  opinion  of  Doves.  They  compel  that  by  their  charming 
characteristics  and  absolute  harmlessness.  These  Doves  gave 
me  a  deeper  respect  for  the  whole  species  by  proving  their  sense 
in  constructing  this  nest. 

Had  they  piled  on  this  rail  a  rough  little  heap  of  their  ordinary 
construction,  I  should  have  said:  "Doves'  usual  work!  It's  to 
be  hoped  the  eggs  won't  roll  out!"  Before  that  nest  I  held  my 
breath. 

"  Oh,  Bob,"  I  cried.  "  Oh,  Bob !  Do  you  see  what  they  have 
done?  Do  you  see  how  they  have  kept  to  the  colouring  of  the 
fence  and  built  to  imitate  a  knot-hoie,  as  surely  as  ever  Fly- 
catcher did?" 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Bob.  "That's  a  fact!  I  didn't  know 
they  had  that  much  sense." 

Neither  did  I.  But  now  that  I  have  seen  for  myself,  my  esti- 
mation of  the  whole  species  rises.  It  is  things  like  these,  small 
things,  which  set  nature-students  wondering.  Had  these  Doves 

250 


THE  MOURNING  DOVE 

built  their  usual  structure,  ornithologists  would  say  it  was  instinc- 
tive. When  they  leave  all  traces  of  the  building  of  their  species, 
and  fashion  a  compact  nest  of  unaccustomed  material,  resembling 
in  colour  the  fence  on  which  they  build  it,  what  shall  it  be  called? 

I  watched  these  birds  to  see  if  in  any  other  way  they  differed 
from  the  remainder  of  their  family,  but  could  detect  no  trait 
unusual  with  every  Dove  I  ever  had  known.  From  a  grassy 
couch  under  a  big  winesap  closest  their  corner  I  studied  every 
feature  of  their  daily  life  and  found  them  common  Doves.  They 
were  no  bigger  than  the  average  Dove,  their  plumage  was  the 
same,  they  ate  seeds  to  gluttony,  their  wings  whistled  when  they 
flew,  they  were  closer  the  river  than  the  road,  yet  they  preferred 
to  bathe  in  the  dust.  The  male  verified  all  specifications  relat- 
ing to  him  as  to  constancy  and  tenderness.  He  stuffed  his 
brooding  mate  until  she  was  compelled  to  refuse  more  food,  then 
loved  her  until  he  almost  pushed  her  off  her  eggs. 

He  always  preceded  the  feeding  process  by  locking  bills  in  a 
caress,  then  stroking  her  wing,  then  a  bite  and  another  caress  and 
locked  bills  at  parting.  When  she  would  not  take  any  more, 
close  against  her  as  he  could  crowd  he  perched  on  the  rail  until  she 
frequently  had  to  push  him  away  to  keep  her  carefully  built  nest 
intact.  I  loved  to  watch  and  study  them.  I  was  waiting  until 
brooding  had  progressed  a  week  or  so  before  beginning  a  series  of 
pictures  of  them,  when  Bob  with  a  discouraged  face,  met  my 
carriage. 

"Our  Doves  are  gone,"  he  said. 

I  could  only  repeat:     "Our  Doves  are  gone?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bob.  "Aspy  turned  the  cattle  into  the  orchard 
this  morning  and  the  very  first  thing  they  did  was  to  get  into 
that  shrubbery,  pulling  a  limb  across  the  nest  that  tore  it  up  and 
broke  the  eggs." 

A  field  worker  must  become  accustomed  to  disappointment; 

253 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

but  I  did  not  realize  what  I  had  hoped  to  do  with  those  Doves, 
nor  the  extent  to  which  I  had  counted  upon  them  for  something 
fresh  and  characteristic,  until  the  dainty  little  nest  and  the  pearls 
of  eggs  lay  trampled  and  broken  at  my  feet. 

Here  is  another  point  for  nature  students.  Having  had  bad 
luck  in  a  low  location  and  seen  their  nest  torn  down  by  browsing- 
cattle,  what  did  they  do?  Go  somewhere  else  and  build  another 
nest  as  low,  from  instinct?  They  followed  the  line  of  the  fence 
to  the  river-bank,  and  at  the  height  of  at  least  twenty-five  feet, 
they  built  the  highest  nest  I  ever  saw  constructed  by  Doves.  It 
was  in  the  branches  of  a  very  large  hickory-tree. 

So  there  was  no  "  series  "  of  these  Doves.  A  week  later,  how- 
ever, Bob  told  me  that  across  the  river,  in  the  woods  pasture,  lie 
had  found  a  nest  the  preceding  day  with  a  pair  of  Doves  in  it 
almost  old  enough  to  fly.  We  rowed  across  and  found  them  still 
there. 

These  Doves  had  homed  in  a  brush  heap  so  old  that  the  limbs 
were  rotten  and  covered  with  a  tangle  of  wild  rose  and  grape-vines. 
I  remember  that  the  grapes  were  in  bloom.  In  fact,  so  vividly  is 
every  surrounding  of  each  of  the  studies  in  this  book  photo- 
graphed on  my  memory  and  sensibilities,  that  though  it  is 
January  and  a  white  world  as  I  write,  I  can  scent  the  pungent 
grape-bloom  and  a  rank  succulent  odour  of  green  things  crushed 
underfoot,  hear  the  bumbling  of  bees  and  the  lusty  challenges  to 
combat  of  a  pair  of  Brahma  roosters  separated  by  two  miles  of 
space,  as  I  did  when  working  with  these  Doves. 

The  young  were  not  so  near  ready  to  fly  as  Bob  had  imagined. 
That  day  we  photographed  them  in  their  nest,  which  was  typical, 
the  merest  little  handful  of  twigs  imaginable.  They  could 
scarcely  cling  to  it  while  a  heavy  wind  would  have  wrecked  it 
completely.  Two  days  later  we  found  them  sitting  side  by  side 
and  made  a  study  of  them.  I  very  nearly  said  we  induced  them 

254 


THE  MOURNING  DOVE 

to  look  characteristic,  but  when  I  thought  of  it,  they  would  appear 
that  way  in  any  event,  while  we  neither  could  cause  nor  prevent 
it.  In  my  experience  a  Dove  is  always  a  Dove.  If  I  should  see 
one  involved  in  an  affair  of  honour  with  any  other  bird  or  pulling 
feathers  from  his  mate  I  should  think  he  had  eaten  wild  parsnip- 
seed  and  gone  crazy. 

As  we  worked  around  these  nestlings  from  the  deep  cool 
forest  came  continuously  the  mournful  "A'gh,  coo,  coo,  coo," 
of  the  old  Doves.  No  wonder  early  ornithologists  thought 
Mourning  Doves  a  suitable  name  for  them.  The  same  idea  has 
become  so  ingrained  with  us  that  it  is  a  protection  to  them. 
Even  careless  children  respect  the  supposed  grief  of  Doves,  as 
they  would  that  of  humans. 

On  detailed  investigation  there  are  no  happier  birds.  They 
emerge  in  pairs,  grow  up  close  as  they  can  keep  together  all  day 
and  crowd  tight  against  each  other  at  night.  With  them  there  is 
no  eager  unrest  and  search  for  a  mate.  Excepting  while  the  female 
broods,  a  circle  of  three  yards  would  include  both  of  them  three- 
fourths  of  the  time,  even  in  flight.  Often  on  wing  I  have  seen  a 
male  Dove  forge  ahead  too  far  and  turning  describe  a  circle 
around  his  mate  and  come  up  closer  to  her.  They  are  of  such 
quiet  disposition  and  inconspicuous  colouring  that  they  escape 
many  of  the  dangers  which  brilliant,  self-assertive  birds  call  upon 
themselves. 

Always  there  is  an  abundance  of  the  seed  they  love  best  to  be 
had  for  the  eating,  their  crops  eternally  are  stuffed  to  gluttony; 
always  it  is  easy  to  find  dust  for  bathing.  Always  they  are  to- 
gether, tender,  loving,  and  in  reality  cooing  in  an  ecstasy  of  su- 
preme content  about  it  all.  Mourning  Doves,  indeed!  One 
might  well  covet  such  mourning  as  theirs. 

During  the  year  following  the  publication  of  this  book,  in 
these  same  locations  I  had  the  happiness  of  reproducing  two 

255 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

brooding  Doves;  a  thing  I  have  not  yet  seen  done  by  any  other 
field  worker.  After  I  had  secured  these  studies,  I  understood 
precisely  why  Dove  reproductions  are  not  plentiful. 

The  first  brooded  on  a  heap  of  driftwood  hanging  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  Wabash  where  it  flows  west  through  Shimp's 
meadow.  Bob  had  no  idea  how  long  the  bird  had  brooded  when 
he  found  her.  The  location  was  so  low  I  could  set  up  my  camera 
on  the  ground,  but  I  was  hampered  in  my  movements  by  being 
forced  to  work  through  a  woven  wire  fence  on  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  while  the  rapidly  rising  water  of  a  spring  freshet  threatened 
to  carry  away  the  nest  at  any  minute.  The  time  of  my  first  visit 
was  five  in  the  afternoon,  later  than  I  try,  as  a  rule,  to  do  field 
work;  but  on  account  of  the  flood  I  was  doubtful  whether 
the  nest  w^ould  be  there  until  morning.  So  quietly  and  with 
all  the  caution  possible  I  set  up  a  camera.  Focussing  on  the 
nest  was  slow  work  on  account  of  having  to  push  the  lens  between 
the  wires  of  the  fence,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  the  proper 
range.  The  bird  sat  throughout  the  long  performance  without 
showing  the  slightest  inclination  to  move;  but  went  with  a  whirr 
when  I  began  to  take  down  the  camera.  As  the  nest  was  in  great 
peril  from  the  flood  I  also  made  a  study  of  it  and  the  eggs,  think- 
ing very  probably  it  would  be  gone  before  another  day.  I  went 
away  jubilant,  believing  Doves  were  easy  and  that  with  morning 
light  I  could  secure  a  much  better  picture,  as  the  little  gray 
mother  was  coloured  so  like  her  surroundings  that  it  was  difficult 
to  distinguish  her  from  the  driftwood. 

When  the  light  was  right  the  following  morning  I  approached 
with  usual  caution,  but  there  was  a  whirr  of  wings  before  I  came 
in  sight  of  the  nest.  When  I  reached  it  I  saw  at  a  glance  that 
the  bird  had  been  bound  by  the  brooding  fever  the  previous 
evening,  for  there  was  a  pair  of  newly  hatched  babies  in  the 
nest  and  bits  of  shell  around  it.  I  hastily  set  up  and  focussed 

256 


THE  MOURNING  DOVE 

the  camera,  then  slipped  sixty  feet  away  to  await  her  return. 
She  came  close  but  would  not  enter  the  nest  with  the  camera 
there.  When  I  waited  until  I  was  afraid  for  the  young  I  was 
forced  to  remove  it.  After  she  had  brooded  a  long  time,  I 
tried  again  with  as  great  caution  as  it  was  possible  for  me  to 
use;  again  she  flew  before  I  could  see  her.  We  made  an  all-day 
business  of  it,  also  several  days  following  were  spent  in  futile 
attempts,  for  the  bird  grew  wilder  as  the  young  grew  older,  while 
a  vicious  mare  with  a  young  colt  chased  me  every  time  she  saw 
me,  so  that  the  first  exposure  was  all  I  had  of  the  river  Dove. 
I  made  several  of  the  young  to  complete  the  series,  before  they 
left  the  nest. 

The  other  nest  was  a  few  rods  away,  in  the  Aspy  orchard. 
In  beating  down  apples,  boys  had  used  a  piece  of  old  apple-tree 
trunk.  It  had  lodged  flat  on  a  branch,  hollow  side  up,  one  end 
firmly  wedged  between  two  green  "suckers,"  the  other  against  a 
small  limb,  where  it  had  held  for  a  season.  Here  the  Doves 
had  made  an  unusually  ramshackle  nest,  upon  which  the  gentle 
and  modest-appearing  hen  was  brooding. 

An  interesting  time  that  bird  gave  me,  not  another  such  in  a 
lifetime  of  work  afield.  When  I  began  with  her  she  showed  symp- 
toms of  moving  at  thirty  feet  so  I  stopped  right  there  to  make  the 
first  exposure.  Wlien  I  tried  walking  the  camera  toward  her,  she 
went  like  the  proverbial  "flash,"  and  would  not  return  with  me 
there,  so  I  took  down  the  camera  and  went  away.  The  next  time 
I  tried  I  got  a  few  feet  closer  before  'she  made  a  forward  impulse 
which  warned  me  to  stop.  I  made  another  exposure  and  again 
cautiously  tried  moving  the  camera  forward.  I  knew  the  ground 
as  I  had  gone  close  and  pictured  the  eggs  the  first  time  she  left, 
but  there  was  no  approach  by  that  method.  The  bird  would 
not  endure  having  the  strange-looking  object  slowly  draw  near 
her,  so  the  camera  would  have  to  be  carried  away.  An  hour 

257 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

later  I  could  go  back,  move  a  foot  or  two  closer  and  make  an- 
other exposure.  Sometimes  I  only  pretended  an  exposure,  but 
mostly  I  made  one  as  her  position  would  be  different  on  the  nest, 
or  the  light  better. 

After  three  days  of  this  I  had  advanced  to  within  less  than  ten 
feet  of  her,  where  I  made  the  title  picture  of  this  chapter.  I  kept 
no  account  of  the  number  of  approaches  I  made,  but  I  have  about 
twenty  exposures  of  her,  possibly  half  as  many  times  I  advanced 
but  did  not  use  a  plate.  When  the  brooding  fever  was  past  she 
would  not  come  before  the  camera  at  any  distance  to  feed  her 
young,  while  the  nest  was  so  shaded  the  instantaneous  snap  of  a 
feeding  picture  would  have  been  impossible,  had  she  braved  the 
camera.  The  young  posed  many  times  for  me,  so  I  have  a 
beautiful  series  of  their  development. 


YOUNG   DOVES   OF   APPLE-TREE 
258 


COWS   AND    THEIR    FEATHERED    NAMESAKES 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  Coic-bird:     Molbthrus  Ater 

IN    THE    PASTURES 

THE  sky  was  cloudless,  the  air  was  still.  The  dust  lay  thick 
on  the  country  road.  There  were  so  many  cicadas  revelling  in 
the  drowsy  heat  and  so  many  thirsty  tree-toads  calling  for  rain 
that  it  was  as  if  one  cicada  and  one  tree-toad  travelled  with  you, 
singing  all  the  way.  To  the  north  lay  fields  of  velvet-green  where 
clover  quickly  sprang  to  cover  the  brown  stems  of  the  lately 
mown  crop;  dull  tan  where  the  timothy  that  now  packed  swelling 
barns  had  grown;  gold  stubble  thickly  dotted  with  the  sheaves 
of  garnered  wheat;  waving  blue-green  seas  of  unripened  oats  and 
the  jade-coloured  blades  of  growing  corn. 

Above  the  shorn  fields  the  Larks  flung  down  an  interrogatory, 
"Spring  o'  the  year?"  as  if  they  feared  to  state  for  fact  a  matter 
which  might  be  open  to  question;  for  the  season  had  been  pecu- 
liar. Winter  had  lingered  late.  Then  the  spring  rains  began, 
cold  and  prolonged  so  that  the  leaves  had  been  unusually  slow  in 

261 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

opening  while  the  birds  had  been  forced  to  build  low  for  shelter 
and  later  than  ever  before.  Half  these  Larks  had  lost  their 
belated  broods  in  the  garnering  of  the  harvest  and  now  they  hung 
disconsolate  above  the  shorn  fields  uttering  querulous  cries. 
Beneath  them  restless  Shrikes  gathered  grasshoppers  for  half- 
fledged  broods.  On  the  cross-rails  the  Song  Sparrows  piped 
bravely;  from  fence-corner  saplings  the  Goldfinches  questioned 
of  every  passer :  ' '  See  me  ? ' ' 

To  the  south  a  sinuous  line  of  giant  sycamore,  tulip,  ash, 
maple  and  elm  trees  and  the  lapping  purl  of  water  marked  the 
river  near  at  hand,  while  the  rattle  of  my  Kingfishers  and  the 
splash  of  wallowing  carp  told  the  story  of  affairs  of  importance 
going  on  there  as  well  as  in  the  fields.  Though  it  was  mid-after- 
noon the  prickly  heat  held  unabating.  The  patch  of  red  backs 
under  the  oak  at  Stanley's  line  fence  meant  that  the  herd  had 
been  driven  from  grazing,  and  bunched  together,  wrere  lazily 
chewing  their  cuds  and  fighting  flies.  A  flock  of  Cow-birds 
circled  over  and  around  them,  snatching  up  insects  their  stamp- 
ing feet  drove  from  the  grass  or  boldly  foraging  on  their  glossy 
backs. 

Patience  picked  his  way  slowly  while  each  foot  fell  with  a  soft, 
rhythmic  pat  that  raised  a  small  cloud  of  dust.  The  lines  swung 
loosely  from  my  fingers  as  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  and  with 
roving  eyes  searched  for  "studies"  from  my  Vultures  hanging  a 
mere  speck  in  the  sky  above  the  Limberlost,  to  the  hare  scud- 
ding across  the  stubble  or  the  winnowing  of  grasses  that  told  of 
a  snake  sliding  to  the  river. 

At  Stanley's  Bend,  Patience  neighed  sharply,  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  broke  into  a  swinging  trot.  The  beast  found  intelligence 
and  voice  to  show  its  anxiety  to  reach  Bob;  for  Bob  meant  to  him 
rest,  shade,  water,  grass  and  Gypsy,  with  whom  to  make  friends. 
And  to  me  Bob  meant  the  best  person  of  all  to  whom  to  appeal 

£62 


THE  COW-BIRD 

for  help,  for  "the  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh," 
and  despite  the  deafening  explosions  of  the  gas-engine,  the  steady 
rumble  of  the  balance-wheel,  the  creaking  of  the  turning-table,  the 
rattling  rod-lines,  the  constant  wash  of  the  streams  of  crude  oil 
that  poured  into  the  big  black  tanks,  and  the  sharp  metallic  click 
of  the  valves  as  it  gushed  through  the  pipe-lines,  the  birds  clus- 
tered around  Bob  until  there  were  half  a  dozen  there  to  every  one 
on  any  other  lease  beside  the  river. 

Paradise  on  the  Wabash  meant  Bob's  lease  to  me.  I  always 
stopped  when  passing  for  almost  every  day  there  was  some  won- 
der in  store  for  me.  The  birds  trusted  Bob,  as  men  trusted  him, 
were  unafraid  as  women  were  unafraid,  and  loved  him  as  little 
children  everywhere  loved  him.  Patience  left  the  road,  crossed 
the  grass  to  the  tree  he  liked  best  and  stood  lipping  the  bark  or 
watching  down  the  path.  I  lay  back  and  closed  my  aching  eyes. 
The  horse  neighed  sharply.  There  was  a  clear  whistle  and  the 
bark  of  a  dog  in  answer;  a  second  later  the  pointer  leaped  the 
fence  and  came  dashing  down  the  path  to  touch  noses  with  her 
friend.  Then  a  man's  head  came  to  light  among  the  bushes, 
his  shoulders  lifted  above  the  bank;  with  a  spring  to  equal  the 
dog's  he  cleared  the  fence  and  came  hurrying  to  the  carriage. 

As  I  watched  him  a  warm  wave  of  gratitude  swept  my  heart. 
Bob  always  had  understood,  while  there  were  so  very  few  others 
who  had.  I  had  found  such  various  people  in  my  work.  Of  the 
land-owners  of  my  territory  many  had  opened  their  gates,  laid 
down  their  fences,  and  given  me  freedom  to  go  wherever  my  sub- 
jects called  me.  Some  had  left  the  plow  and  harvesting  to  assist 
me.  Some  had  merely  tolerated  me,  allowing  me  to  shift  for 
myself,  others  had  closed  their  premises  against  me,  yet  others 
had  charged  me  an  enormous  price  for  driving  down  a  lane  they 
used  every  day  themselves. 

But  the  oil-men  always  had  been  different.  Whether  I  came 

263 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

in  contact  with  a  millionaire  lease-owner  or  a  ditcher  in  a  trench, 
the  mere  fact  that  I  was  a  woman,  trying  to  do  something  at 
which  they  could  help,  had  been  sufficient.  Some  of  them  had 
understood  my  work  and  some  had  not,  but  in  no  single  instance 
had  one  of  them  ever  failed  to  do  anything  in  his  power  or  to 
show  me  royal  courtesy,  while  of  them  all  Bob  was  king. 

Without  a  word  of  salutation  or  apparent  notice  he  walked 
straight  to  the  small  black  and  began  knotting  the  hitching  strap 
around  the  tree.  As  his  hands  moved  a  big  diamond  gleamed  in 
the  light.  I  knew  Bob,  but  you  never  could  tell  about  an  oil- 
man if  you  did  not.  An  elegantly  dressed  individual  might  be  a 
promoter  with  capital  so  nearly  atmospheric  that  he  lacked  the 
price  of  his  dinner,  while  a  begrimed  creature  in  jumpers  and 
sweater  might  be  a  capitalist  whose  automobile  waited  in  the 
stubble  of  the  adjoining  field  while  he  inspected  his  holdings. 

"Is  there  something  for  me?"  I  asked. 

"There  is,"  replied  Bob. 

He  lifted  the  camera,  picked  up  the  tripod,  ordered  Gypsy 
to  remain  with  the  rig,  then  led  the  way  down  the  path,  through 
the  boiler  house,  where  the  exhaust  pipe 'uttered  deafening 
shrieks  and  the  ground  trembled  with  the  throbbing  of  the  big- 
black  monster,  past  his  brooding  Quail  and  Wood  Robin,  past  his 
Blue  Finch  and  Song  Sparrow  down  to  the  nest  of  his  Black- 
masked  W7arbler. 

"But  I  thought  we  agreed  not  to  disturb  her  until  she  had 
brooded  at  least  a  week,"  I  objected. 

"Look!"  said  Bob,  and  kneeling,  he  bent  back  the  wild 
plum  bushes  bringing  to  light  the  daintiest  of  little  grassy,  moss- 
covered  cups.  It  contained  only  two  of  the  beautiful  Warbler 
eggs  that  had  been  in  it  the  day  before,  and  two  big  eggs  with  a 
white  ground  finely  dotted  with  purple. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  questioned  Bob  in  rank  disgust. 

264 


NEST   OF  INDIGO   FINCH   CONTAINING   EGG   OF  COW-BIRD 


THE  COW-BIRD 

"  Cow-birds,"  I  answered.     "  When  did  you  first  notice  this?  " 

"Early  this  morning,"  replied  Bob.  "I  heard  the  Warbler 
fretting  and  went  tosee  if  a  snakeor  squirrel  were  bothering  them. 
Two  of  their  eggs  were  gone  and  those  two  big  speckled  things  in 
their  place.  Make  your  study  quickly  if  you  want  one,  for  I  am 
going  to  smash  them." 

"Oh,  no,  you!re  not,  Bob,"  I  pleaded.  "I  wouldn't  have 
you  touch  that  nest  for  a  farm.  Those  Warblers  have  just  begun 
brooding  and  the  Cow-birds  have  disturbed  them  all  they  will 
endure  already.  We  will  slip  away  quietly  while  you  guard  that 
nest  as  you  never  before  guarded  one.  It  is  most  uncommon  for 
a  Cow-bird  to  leave  two  eggs  in  a  nest,  so  if  they  hatch,  with 
those  tiny  Warblers,  why  then,  we  shall  have  a  picture  worth 
talking  about." 

"But  will  the  Warbler  brood  on  them?"  protested  Bob. 

"Hasn't  she  been  on  them  all  day?" 

"All  day,"  growled  Bob,  "and  nothing  but  waiting  for  you 
ever  kept  me  from  pitching  them  out.  I  don't  see  how  a  bird 
almost  as  big  as  a  Blackbird  ever  laid  in  that  tiny  nest,  and  what 
became  of  the  AVarbler  eggs?" 

"The  Cow-bird  ate  them,"  I  answered.  "She  disposed  of 
one  each  time  she  deposited  one,  though  how  she  managed  to  drop 
an  egg  in  that  nest  without  breaking  the  \Varbler's  is  a  mystery." 

"I  can  easily  break  hers,  right  now,"  volunteered  Bob,  with 
that  twinkle  in  his  eye  in  response  to  which  his  discerning  mother 
named  him  Bob  Burdette. 

"But  you  never  will,  Bob,"  I  coaxed.  "What  you  will  do  is 
to  stand  guard  and  make  sure  they  hatch,  and  in  the  meantime 
find  me  the  other  Cow-bird  eggs.  She  will  lay  two  more,  possibly 
three." 

"What!  "cried  Bob. 

"I  said  you  would  find  me  the  remainder  of  her  eggs.  .  We 

267 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

won't  touch  these,  to  make  their  hatching  doubly  sure,  but  we'll 
make  our  studies  from  the  others." 

"Well,  wouldn't  that  freeze  you?"  marvelled  Bob,  mopping 
perspiration,  "I'm  going  to  do  it ! ' 

"Good  boy!"  I  applauded.  ''I  know  you  don't  very  well 
like  the  job,  but  this  is  our  chance  for  something  really  rare. 
The  Cow-bird  will  come  back  to-morrow,  at  the  same  time  she 
did  this  morning,  and  select  the  nest  of  some  deep  builder,  so  if 
you  are  on  the  lookout  you  are  almost  sure  of  seeing  her." 

The  following  morning  Bob  sent  me  word  that  the  Cow-bird 
had  imposed  an  egg  on  his  Yireo;  to  come  quickly  if  I  wanted  a 
study  of  it.  I  knew  exactly  what  that  meant.  Bob  uncovered 
in  front  of  his  Vireo  nest.  The  little  mother  Vireo  was  so  dainty, 
so  delicate,  so  exquisitely  coloured!  Her  beak  was  elegantly 
shaped,  her  back  pale  gray,  her  breast  white,  her  ruby  eyes  so 
wise  and  so  trustful,  while  her  confidence  in  Bob,  who  passed 
close  by  her  many  times  every  day,  was  implicit. 

Of  the  dozens  of  nests  Bob  had  located,  there  was  not  one 
so  exquisite  as  this  Vireo's,  for  at  the  branching  of  two  elm  twigs, 
no  higher  than  my  head,  she  had  built  a  pendent  cup  lashed  to  the 
limbs  with  bits  of  string  and  hair,  wound  securely  round  and  round 
and  even  carried  to  near-by  limbs.  When  it  was  solidly  tim- 
bered, securely  fastened  and  softly  lined,  to  Bob  and  to  me,  who 
had  watched  its,  progress,  it  seemed  complete,  but  the  little  bird- 
mother,  with  exactly  the  same  loving  impulse  that  is  in  the 
breast  of  a  human  mother  when  she  adds  lace  and  ribbon  to 
her  baby's  cradle,  set  about  gathering  heavy,  rough,  snow-white 
cobwebs  and  festooning  them  over  the  outside  until  the  riest  ap- 
peared as  if  dipped  in  ocean  foam.  She  stuck  through  these  w^ebs 
a  number  of  fantastically  shaped  little  dried,  brown,  empty  last- 
year's  seed-pods,  as  a  finishing  touch,  then  Bob  took  off  his  hat. 

He   said    she    was    a   lady    so    no   gentleman   would    stand 


THE  COW-BIRD 


NEST    OF    VIREO    CONTAINING    TWO    EGGS    OF    THE    BUILDER    AND    ONE    OF 
THE    COW-BIRD 


covered  before  her.  He  fairly  worshipped  the  delicately  coloured, 
jewel-eyed  little  pair  and  their  exquisite  cradle.  Concerning 
them  he  was  squarely  on  the  ground  of  Nuttall,  who  said  that, 
"wantonly  to  destroy  these  delightful  aids  to  sentimental  happi- 
ness ought  to  be  viewed  not  only  as  an  act  of  barbarity,  but 
almost  as  sacrilege."  Knowing  what  the  destruction  of  a  single 
Vireo  egg  meant  to  Bob,  I  went  with  all  possible  haste. 

He  was  angrier  even  than  I  had  feared,  for  the  Cow-bird  had 
eaten  one  Vireo  egg  and  in  depositing  her  own,  cracked  another. 
He  had  a  little  bowl-shaped  paddle  whittled  out  and  ready,  and 
on  my  advice  scooped  out  the  broken  egg,  lest  it  soil  the  contents 
of  the  nest  in  bending  down  the  limb.  AVe  tied  the  branch  se- 
curely so  in  a  short  time  the  two  Vireo  eggs  and  the  big  speckled 
one  were  on  record.  Scarcely  had  the  shutter  clicked  when  Bob 

269 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

scooped  out  the  Cow-bird  egg,  dropped  it  on  the  ground  and  vin- 
dictively set  his  heel  on  it.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  the  picture 
he  was  spoiling  by  not  allowing  that  egg  to  hatch,  but  there  was 
no  use  in  asking  him  to  leave  it.  There  are  times  when  Bob 
can  say  no;  he  had  reached  his  limit  when  he  left  two  Cow-bird 
eggs  in  the  Warbler's  nest. 

"I'm  glad  that's  over,"  said  Bob,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"I'll  not  stand  having  this  little  gray  soul  pestered  again.  If 
that  Cow-bird  comes  here  to-morrow  I'll  take  my  shot-gun  and 
blow  her  to  atoms." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Vireo  was  on  the  edge  of  her  nest,  peep- 
ing inquiringly  into  it  to  see  what  had  happened  next.  It  really 
seemed  as  if  she  ruffled  her  feathers  with  satisfaction  as  she 
settled  to  brood  on  her  two  eggs. 

The  following  morning,  Bob  kept  his  word  about  standing 
guard.  He  did  not  see  the  Cow-bird;  but  visiting  his  line  of 
nests  down  the  bank,  when  he  thought  all  danger  to  the  Vireo 
was  over,  found  that  this  bird  of  brass  had  made  a  house-warming 
party  all  by  herself  and  laid  ihe  first  egg  in  the  newly  completed 
nest  of  a  Song  Sparrow  in  a  wild  crab.  While  he  awaited  my 
arrival  he  noticed  that  the  little  father  and  mother  Sparrow  were 
working  feverishly,  and  when  we  reached  the  nest  a  new  floor  was 
laid  over  the  Cow-bird's  egg,  a  Sparrow  egg  was  deposited  and 
the  mother  was  brooding.  That  made  four  eggs  for  the  Cow- 
bird,  so  we  figured  that  it  would  be  the  last,  but  the  morning  after 
Bob  saw  her  sneaking  up  the  opposite  river-bank  with  such  elab- 
orate caution  it  made  her  conspicuous. 

She  entered  a  thicket  of  wild  rose  and  blackberry  that  con- 
tained no  nest  of  which  we  knew,  so  he  did  not  follow  her.  But 
wonder  as  to  what  she  could  have  been  doing  there  kept  filling 
his  mind,  so  he  stepped  into  his  boat  and  started  across  the  river, 
in  time  to  see  her  leaving  the  thicket  in  what  appeared  to  be  a 

270 


THE- COW-BIRD 

frenzy  of  excitement,  so  Bob  decided  that  she  had  found  a  place 
to  deposit  her  last  egg  and  was  rejoicing  over  the  successful  plac- 
ing of  her  family. 

He  entered  the  bushes  locating  the  nest  of  an  Indigo  Finch 
that  he  had  not  suspected  was  there.  There  were  two  of  the 
delicate  opalescent  eggs  of  the  Finch  with  the  last  egg  of  the 
Cow-bird,  still  warm  to  the  touch.  Again  there  was  a  hurry  call. 
The  study  was  beautiful.  Bob  unceremoniously  dumped  that 
egg  also. 

He  heroically  stood  guard  at  the  Warbler's  nest  and  every  few 
days  we  speculated  as  to  what  would  happen  there.  Suppose 
all  four  of  the  eggs  hatched.  Would  those  dainty  little  Warblers 
be  able  to  supply  food  for  the  Cow-birds  and  their  own  babies 
also?  Would  they  feed  their  own  and  starve  the  strangers?  Or 
would  the  beaks  that  could  open  widest  and  lift  highest  get  all  the 
food  and  the  Warbler  babies  be  trampled  underfoot  and  die  of 
hunger? 

These  questions  soon  were  settled.  All  four  of  the  eggs 
hatched,  and  although  the  Warbler  babies  should  have  been  out 
first,  we  were  amazed  to  see  the  Cow-birds  emerge  the  same  day, 
thereby  clearly  proving  that  they  required  several  days'  shorter 
incubation  than  the  young  among  which  they,  were  placed. 
The  Cow-birds  were  three  times  the  size  of  the  Warblers  in  the 
beginning  so  they  filled  the  nest.  They  crowded  from  the  first. 
Scarcely  was  their  down  dry  until  they  lifted  sturdy  big  heads, 
opened  cavernous  mouths  and  the  clamour  for  food  began. 

The  tiny  specks  of  bugs  and  worms  that  the  Warblers  were 
able  to  collect  made  small  impression  on  their  ravenous  appetites. 
All  day  their  heads  were  up,  their  mouths  wide  open.  All  day 
those  little  Warbler  parents  darted  hither  and  thither,  nervously 
searching  for  food  to  satisfy  the  greed  of  the  foster  children 
thrust  so  unceremoniously  upon  them.  If  their  own  succeeded  in 

271 


FIUKXBS  IN  FEATHERS 


THE    PAIR   OF    YOUNG    VIREOS 


securing  a  tiny  morsel,  really  it  was  by  accident,  for  they  were  so 
buried  from  sight  and  their  feeble  cries  so  drowned  in  the  lusty 
clamour  of  the  Cow-birds,  that  their  end  seemed  apparent  from 
the  first.  The  smallest  Warbler  had  no  chance  at  all  for  in  a  few 
days  Bob  lifted  him  from  the  nest  with  my  hat-pin,  dead  and 
trampled  flat.  I  am  afraid  he  "said  things"  when  he  did  it. 
The  beak  of  the  remaining  Warbler  did  not  reach  the  butts  of  the 
Cow-birds'  wings  when  he  raised  his  wobbly  little  head  to  join  his 
voice  in  the  hunger-cry  which  went  on  all  day,  but  some  way  he 
got  barely  enough  to  keep  him  alive. 

The  old  Warblers  seemed  to  feel  that  the  continual  cries  from 
their  brood  were  an  imputation  on  their  housekeeping,  for  they 
raced  around  pitifully,  taking  time  neither  to  bathe  nor  eat 
enough  themselves.  Soon  they  were  mere  shadows.  But  day 
by  day  the  Cow-birds  waxed  fatter  and  fatter  while  their  cries 
grew  more  vociferous.  Day  by  day  the  Warblers  grew  thinner. 

272 


THE  COW-BIRD 

The  baby's  crop  hollowed  until  it  was  drawn  from  sight/his  eyes 
sank  deeper  and  he  grew  more  patient. 

Bob's  only  relief  was  to  watch  his  Vireos  thrive.  There 
being  but  two  of  them  they  were  unusually  well  fed  and  grew  to 
remarkable  size  and  beauty.  Every  time  he  approached  the  nest 
the  proud  little  father  came  turning  somersaults  through  the  air 
and  inquiring  with  true  pulpit  oratory,  "Do  you  see  it?"  "Do 
you  hear  me?  "  " Do  you  believe  it ?  "  while  Bob  with  bared  head 
and  worshipful  eyes  said  that  he  did.  One  day  he  found  them 


INVERTED     NEST     OF     SONG     SPARROW,     SHOWING 
WALLED-IN   EGG   OF   COW-BIRD 

on  the  edge  of  the  nest  and  sent  for  me  to  hurry,  for  he  not  only 
wanted  a  picture  of  them,  but  when  they  went  it  was  time  for 
the  Warbler's  queer  brood  to  go  also. 

I  arrived  in  time  to  secure  a  study  of  them,  but  soon  they 
were  gone.  It  was  not  until  three  days  later  that  Bob  found  one 
of  the  Cow-birds  on  a  limb,  the  other  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  and 
both  of  them  so  stuffed  that  by  no  possibility  could  they  point 
their  beaks  straight  forward  over  their  swollen  crops.  The  Warbler 
was  fully  feathered.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  down  on  him,  and 

273 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

by  every  right  he  should  have  been  the  first  to  leave  the  nest; 
but  he  crouched  down  as  if  enjoying  his  first  comfortable  breath- 
ing-space, and  clung  to  the  nest  as  if  he  could  not  move.  His 
crop  and  eyes  were  sunken,  his  beak  and  feet  pale,  his  throat 
anything  but  the  bright,  healthy  colour  it  should  have  been. 
Starvation  was  written  all  over  him.  There  seemed  to  be  noth- 
ing of  him  but  a  little  bunch  of  bones  and  abnormally  developed 
feathers.  His  plumage  almost  curled. 

The  largest  Cow-bird  climbed  to  the  edge  of  the  nest  and  sat 
there  while  the  other  stayed  on  the  limb.  I  tenderly  lifted  the  War- 
bler and  set  him  between  them  to  contrast  their  size  and  repletion 
with  his  condition.  They  never  attempted  to  fly,  but  opened 
wide  beaks  and  raised  cries  for  more  food,  tnough  where  they  were 
to  put  it  one  could  not  see.  Bob  said  to  them :  "  You  little  boog- 
ers !  I  know  what  you'd  get  if  I  were  engineering  this."  I  made 
several  exposures  then  carefully  put  the  Warbler  back  into  the  nest, 
where  he  remained  all  day,  the  Cow-birds  staying  in  the  same  bush. 

Then  came  the  baby  Warbler's  picnic.  The  old  ones  alighted 
on  the  nest  first  when  they  came  with  food  and  if  he  were 
ready  he  got  a  good  share  before  the  vociferous  cries  of  the  Cow- 
birds  called  them  away.  The  following  day  he  had  so  improved 
that  he  could  move  in  the  nest  while  the  Cow-birds,  fat  and 
sleepy-eyed,  fle\v  to  a  near-by  walnut  shrub,  where  I  made  a  last 
picture  of  them.  Next  day  I  could  not  find  them  and  when  I 
remarked  that  they  seemed  young  to  have  joined  a  flock  of  their 
kind,  Bob  looked  so  peculiar  that  I  lost  no  time  searching. 

"Where  do  these  things  belong?"  he  asked  as  we  gathered  up 
my  paraphernalia  from  the  latest  trip.  "Are  they  protected? " 

"They  belong  to  the  Blackbird  family  and  they  are,"  I  an- 
swered. "The  law  makes  two  classes,  wild  and  game  birds. 
The  section  referring  to  unprotected  birds  reads : '  House  Sparrows, 
Crows,  Hawks,  and  other  birds  of  prey.'" 

274 


THE  COW-BIRD 

"Well,  if  Cow-birds  are  not  birds  of  prey,  I'd  like  to  know 
what  you'd  call  them,"  said  Bob.  "Have  you  figured  it?" 

"I  do  not  know  how  many  there  are  in  the  Stanley  flock," 
I  answered;  "but  the  other  day  I  counted  over  two  hundred  at 
Shimp's.  It's  fair  to  presume  that  half  of  them  are  females. 
Now  here  is  one  female  that  we  know  in  one  season  has  killed 
three  Masked  Warblers,  two  Vireos  and  one  Blue  Finch.  If 
each  female  of  her  flock  has  equalled  her  record  that  makes  six 
hundred  of  our  most  harmless,  inoffensive,  dainty,  beautiful 
little  songsters  wiped  out  while  if  all  Cow-birds  average  four  eggs 
apiece  there  are  four  hundred  of  them  instead.  And  Cow-birds 
are  ugly,  their  rasping  'Cluck-see-ee!'  is  not  song;  instead  of 
hunting  for  insects  that  need  to  be  exterminated  they  sit  on 
the  back  of  a  cow  eating  flies  from  a  scratch ;  why  sling-shots  and 
the  millinery  trade  are  innocent  compared  with  them!  They 
should  be  exterminated!" 

Since  that  summer  not  a  Cow-bird  flutters  over  Stanley's 
sleek  herd.  There  are  none  at  Aspy's  adjoining,  nor  down  the 
river  far  below  Shimp's,  so  Bob's  birds  raise  no  foster  nestlings. 


PAIR    OF   YOUNG   COW-BIRDS 

275 


The  Sand-piper  pipes  all  day  on  the  sand, 
The  Corn-cracker  cracks  his  corn  on  the  land, 
The  Xut-hatch  hatches  in  hollow  nut  trees, 
The  Bee-bird  is  busy  all  day  catching  bees, 
The  Oven-bird  bakes;  while  every  one  knows 
The  Tailor-bird   makes   the  other  birds'   clothes 
The  Cow-bird  is  named,  I'll  explain  to  you  now, 
Because  he's  forever  tagging  after  a  cow. 


27G 


YOUNG  CARDIXAL6 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Cardinal  Grosbeak:     Cardinalis  Cardinally 

IN    SMALL    TREES   AND    BUSHES 

EARLY  in  iny  field  experience 
with  a  camera,  coming  from  the 
east  one  day  I  found  the  body  of  a 
Cardinal  Grosbeak  lying  in  the  dust 
at  the  entrance  to  the  river  bridge. 
I  picked  him  up  to  keep  passing 
horses  from  trampling  his  dead 
body.  As  I  drove  home  with  him 
lying  on  the  seat  bejside  me  my 
feelings  were  outraged.  The  bright- 
est bird  of  our  Indiana  ornithology,  a  fine  musician,  one  fre- 
quently to  be  seen  in  our  fields  and  forests  throughout  the  winter, 
a  seed-eater  that  seldom  spoils  fruit,  enough  of  an  insect  exter- 
minator to  make  his  presence  valuable  anywhere — there  he  lay 
limp,  his  bright  head  never  to  lift  again,  his  brave  whistle 
never  to  enrich  summer  music  and  impoverish  all  other  winter 
musicians — and  for  what?  Merely  to  prove  that  some  fiend 
with  a  gun  could  drop  a  shining  mark. 

Always  I  have  been  the  devout  worshipper,  the  true  lover 
of  this  bird.  By  the  time  I  reached  the  Cabin,  "The  Song  of 
the  Cardinal "  had  been  sung  in  my  heart.  I  immediately  started 
gathering  notes  and  searching  for  nests  from  which  to  make 
illustrations  for  the  protest  I  had  planned.  Never  having  seen  a 

279 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

photograph  of  a  Cardinal,  either  male  or  female,  because  of  the 
disposition  of  the  bird,  I  realized  I  would  have  to  attempt  a  thing 
which  no  one  else  had  accomplished  at  that  time.  As  I  scooped 
a  deep  grave  in  the  orchard,  laying  the  bird  in  and  covering  him 
with  leaves  before  I  packed  in  the  earth,  I  vowed  to  make  the 
name  of  any  man  who  would  kill  a  Cardinal,  repulsive  to  hu- 
manity. 

The  first  thing  was  to  find  nests.  Bob,  the  man  on  our  farm, 
and  several  oil-men  were  enlisted  in  the  cause.  During  the 
three  years  following,  studies  were  made  of  over  a  dozen  Cardinal 
locations.  I  wanted  a  perfect,  typical  nest  with  a  full  clutch  of 
eggs,  a  series  of  the  young;  also  grown  birds  in  every  conceivable 
attitude  that  would  display  their  beauty,  their  devotion  to 
their  mates,  their  fiery  dispositions  and  their  chosen  environ- 
ment. 

I  am  qualified  to  speak  of  the  Cardinal  as  of  no  other  bird, 
having  had  three  times  the  experience  with  him  I  have  had  with 
any  other.  I  did  not  despair  of  securing  the  studies  needed  to 
illustrate  the  book  I  was  planning,  because  when  I  was  a  child  a 
pair  of  Cardinals  had  built  a  nest  near  the  ground,  on  a  flat  cedar 
limb,  not  six  feet  from  my  father's  front  door.  The  remembrance 
that  it  had  taken  me  only  a  few  days  so  to  become  acquainted 
with  them  that  I  sat  by  the  hour  on  the  stoop,  watching  with  a 
child's  broad  sympathy  every  detail  of  their  relations  and  home 
life,  was  my  comfort  now.  If  I  could  win  a  pair  of  Cardinals  to 
trust  me  then,  surely  it  could  be  done  again,  and  the  camera 
introduced  also. 

In  the  third  year  of  my  work,  when  material  was  rapidly 
shaping  for  the  book,  a  suitable  nest-picture  was  lacking.  In  a 
search  for  moth  cocoons  in  the  valley  of  the  Wood  Robin  a  de- 
lighted cry  from  my  invaluable  assistant,  Molly-Cotton,  brought 
me  quickly.  She  had  found  for  me  the  typical  nest,  exactly  what 

280 


THE  CARDINAL  GROSBEAK 

I  wanted  for  my  series.  You  should  have  seen  her  shining  face 
when  I  told  her  so. 

The  nest  was  four  feet  from  the  ground,  not  far  from  the 
Wood  Robin's  location,  on  a  brush  heap  overgrown  and  covered 
in  a  thick  mat  with  wild  roses,  grape-vines  and  blackberry  bushes. 
The  roses  were  in  full  bloom,  while  their  delicate  blossoms  were 
close  over  and  around  the  brooding  mother.  The  nest  was  a 
little  firmer  than  the  usual  Cardinal  construction,  typical  of  the 
best  building,  the  lining  of  dried  grass  thickly  woven  and 
cuppy,  the  four  blue-\vhite  eggs  mizzled  and  mottled  all  over 
with  brownish  and  dark  lavender  specks,  no  two  of  them  exactly 
the  same  colour,  and  one  egg,  undoubtedly  the  first,  quite 
perceptibly  larger  than  the  others.  That  told  the  story  of  a 
young  bird  in  her  first  brooding,  where,  as  a  pullet  sometimes  does, 
she  had  surpassed  herself  with  her  first  egg.  With  the  securing 
of  that  nest  my  series  was  complete,  for  I  had  sufficient  material 
for  every  other  illustration  needed.  Studies  of  more  or  less 
value  had  been  made  around  almost  every  one  of  the  nests  lo- 
cated by  others  or  myself. 

I  chose  for  the  hero  of  my  story  a  male  Cardinal,  undoubtedly 
a  stray  in  Indiana,  for  he  certainly  was  the  big  brilliant  "redbird  " 
of  Kansas  and  Iowa.  I  could  not  carry  him  through  the  illus- 
tration— half  a  dozen  different  Cardinals  had  to  be  reproduced 
for  that — but  I  photographed  him  several  times  alone,  so  that  he 
dominated  the  work,  while  the  others  used  did  not  appear  so  un- 
like him  as  to  attract  the  attention  of  anyone  reading  for 
the  story. 

As  described  in  the  book,  this  bird  really  was  "the  biggest, 
reddest  Redbird"  ever  seen  in  that  locality.  His  home,  in  a 
thicket  of  sumac,  on  the  bank  of  the  Wabash  River,  was  on  the 
Brown  farm  northeast  of  the  village  of  Ceylon.  Cultivated 
fields  came  to  the  bank,  enclosed  by  an  old  snake-fence;  a  few  feet 

283 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

of  grassy  ground  was  covered  by  sumac,  wild  plum,  red  haw, 
thorn,  spice  brush,  papaw  and  vines  of  every  native  variety; 
then  the  embankment  sloped  abruptly  to  the  water  which  spar- 
kled over  clean  pebbly  shoals.  Mercifully  we  were  undis- 
turbed. The  location  was  farther  from  my  home  village  or  from 
Ceylon  than  boys  playing  at  the  river  cared  to  walk;  the  water 
here  was  very  shallow,  so  that  bathing  and  fishing  were  impossi- 
ble. I  never  left  my  carriage  anywhere  close  the  nest,  but 
approached  it  always  from  the  river,  so  that  workers  in  the  field 
would  not  see  me  and  investigate. 

He  was  not  only  the  biggest  and  reddest,  but  his  beard  was 
the  blackest  and  the  longest — witness  the  reproductions— his 
crest  flared  the  highest,  his  whistle  was  the  mellowest  and  he  was 
the  tamest  of  all  my  Cardinal  birds.  It  would  interest  no  one 
to  be  told  how  many  plates  I  spoiled  on  him;  in  three  instances 
I  pictured  him  at  his  level  best,  which  paid  for  all  failure,  time 
and  expense. 

These  pictures  were  secured  by  cutting  off  a  living  limb 
on  which  he  was  accustomed  to  alight  in  a  pause  before  he  reached 
his  nest,  then  substituting  a  dead  branch  in  its  place.  He  never 
seemed  to  know  the  difference,  for  soon  it  became  a  favourite 
resort  with  him.  He  liked  to  sit  there  to  be  sprinkled  during  a 
light  shower.  It  was  the  finest  place  in  the  world  to  fluff  and 
dry  after  his  morning  bath.  No  other  spot  was  so  to  his  liking 
for  a  sun-bath. 

The  camera  was  concealed  in  the  thick  leaves  of  a 
papaw  bush  a  few  feet  away,  a  green  strip  was  bound  over 
the  shining  brass  of  the  lens,  the  camera  was  covered  carefully 
with  leaves,  then  the  exposures  made  with  a  big  bulb  and  long 
hose. 

A  detailed  story  of  all  the  time  spent  on  these  Cardinal  nests 
would  fill  a  larger  book  than  this,  but  a  few  incidents  may  be 

284 


MALE   CARDINAL    SINGING 

'I  know  of    no   other  bird   that,  in    the    stress    of    mating-fever,    rocks,   trills,   lifts 
his  wings,  turns  his  head  and  so  displays  his  passion  and  his  power" 


THE  CARDINAL  GROSBEAK 

interesting.  There  was  no  way  to  photograph  a  Cardinal  with- 
out a  nest  to  lure  him.  How  then  was  I  to  bring  the  big  bird, 
from  the  big  egg  I  had  found  to  account  for  him,  up  to  his  first 
mating?  I  was  forced  to  send  him  south,  but  as  Cardinals  mi- 
grate, especially  the  young  for  their  first  winter,  that  was  all  right. 
I  thought  seriously  of  going  to  Florida  to  try  my  luck,  but  I  was 
overwhelmingly  busy.  How  I  did  want  to  reproduce  that 
crimson  bird  on  a  waxy -green  orange  bough!  There  was  a 
nest  location  from  which  I  had  made  several  good  pictures, 
for  the  Cardinals  had  preempted  the  sumacs  on  this  stretch 
of  river-bank  for  years,  so  there  was  plenty  of  sumac  setting. 
But  how  was  a  Cardinal  ever  to  be  found  alone  on  something 
that  would  answer  for  a  southern  tree  for  the  opening  of  my 
story? 

Watering  plants  in  my  conservatory  one  day  I  scratched  my 
wrist  on  the  thorn  of  a  lemon -tree.  That  solved  my  problem  in  a 
hurry.  Before  night  the  tub  containing  the  tree  was  worked 
into  the  Cardinal's  surroundings,  covered  with  moss  and  grass, 
then  the  tree  so  arranged  that  a  small  limb  replaced  the 
perch  on  which  both  male  and  female  alighted  on  entering  the 
nest.  The  birds  are  accustomed  to  having  all  paths,  save  their 
trackless  one  of  air,  changed  with  every  passing  windstorm;  it 
was  a  limb,  green  like  the  other,  so  it  was  used  instead.  Four 
exposures  were  made  on  the  male  bird  there  before  that  device 
was  removed.  Three  of  them  were  suitable  to  use,  two  were 
better  than  I  hoped  for,  while  one  was  unaccountably  foreshort- 
ened so  that  it  was  a  failure.  After  my  success  with  the  lemon- 
tree,  which  I  thought  so  like  an  orange  as  to  answer,  that  perch 
was  changed  almost  every  day  to  give  a  thread  of  continuity  to 
my  illustration. 

A  Cardinal  is  a  strenuous  lover,  his  attachment  to  his  mate 
being  unusually  strong,  his  fighting  capacity  equal  in  force  to  his 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

affections.  He  shows  no  mercy  on  a  rival  and  spares  no  attention 
to  his  mate.  He  is  a  splendid  musician  and  vastly  proud  of  his 
vocal  ability.  I  know  of  no  other  bird  that,  in  the  stress  of 
mating-fever  rocks,  trills,  lifts  his  wings,  turns  his  head,  and  so 
displays  his  passion  and  his  power.  As  never  before  I  found  in 
him  material  for  studies  which  were  reproductions  of  character. 
Yet  do  the  best  I  could,  my  likenesses  of  this  vivid  bird 
always  seem  pale  and  small  to  me  when  I  think  of  the  pictures 
he  made  there  in  the  sumac,  living  out  his  life  of  joy  and 
freedom. 

All  the  studies  one  could  wish  of  young  could  be  secured 
around  these  nests  as  easily  as  those  of  any  other  birds,  but 
Cardinal  young  are  an  especial  temptation.  There  is  lure  in 
their  deep  hazel  eyes,  flaring  crests,  important  carriage  and  their 
red-tinted  feathering.  A  pair  of  them  makes  a  picture  difficult 
to  surpass  in  attractiveness. 

I  have  followed  several  pairs  of  birds  throughout  one  season 
and  made  more  or  less  complete  series  of  them,  but  the  Cardinal 
is  the  only  bird  I  have  followed  season  after  season,  through  days 
and  weeks  of  unceasing  hard  labour,  and  I  have  done  it  in  the 
hope  that  what  I  might  write  and  tell  would  serve  for  his  pro- 
tection. I  think  it  has.  His  book:  "The  Song  of  the  Cardinal," 
the  most  emphatic  plea  I  could  make  for  him,  has  travelled  wher- 
ever the  English  language  is  spoken,  and  been  translated  into 
three  foreign  tongues.  In  every  state  of  the  Union  Mr.  Edward 
Whitney  has  rendered  his  story  before  large  Chautauqua  au- 
diences in  the  leading  cities  and  towns.  Every  year  now,  sees 
him  coming  in  increasing  numbers. 

He  is  our  brightest,  bravest  bird.  Not  only  are  field  and 
stream  enriched  by  his  summer  music,  but  our  winter  woods 
during  the  gray  days,  in  severe  cold,  resound  with  his  cheery 
whistle,  and,  oh,  how  we  need  every  winter  singer! 

288 


'And,  oh,  how  we  need  every  winter  singer! 


289 


"What  cheer: 

What  cheer! 

That  is  the  Cardinal  Grosbeak's  way, 
With  his  sooty  face  and  his  coat  so  red. 
Cheer!  cheer! 

What  cheer! 

Oh,  all  the  world  shall  be  glad  to  hear! 
And  the  nightingale 
Shall  fail 

When  I  burst  forth  with  my  freedom  song 
So  rich  and  strong ! " 

—  Thompson. 


200 


MALE   JAY   SINGING 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Blue  Jay:     Cyanocitta  Cristdta 

IN    THE    ORCHARD 

A  LONG-TIME  friend  of  mine  told 
me  that  "if  I  were  interested  in  such 
a  blamed  nuisance  as  a  Jay  Bird 
there  was  a  nest  in  a  grape-vine 
covered  scrub  elm  in  a  fence-corner 
on  the  west  side  of  the  orchard." 
So  I  turned  in  at  the  lane,  drove 
past  the  machinery  sheds,  past  the 
garden  where  squares  of  radishes, 
onions,  lettuce,  poppies  and  phlox 
were  surrounded  by  a  hedge  of 
gooseberry  and  currant  bushes, 
past  the  milk  yard,  past  the  big  red 
barn,  and  down  the  long  lane  which 
separated  the  orchard  from  a  wheat 
field  and  led  on  to  the  creek.  This 
world  has  no  more  beautiful  spot 
than  that  orchard.  The  big  trees 
were  at  their  prime,  there  was  a 
thick  carpet  of  waving  grass  be- 
neath them,  an  arch  of  blue  with  lazy  floating  clouds  above,  while 
around  it  was  a  lichen-  and  vine-covered  old  snake  fence,  most 
rails  of  which  housed  uncounted  tenants. 

293 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


THE   JAY    NEST    IN    THE    ELM 


Sky-larks  from  the  wheat  fields  hung  over  it,  their  notes  of 
piercing  sweetness  ringing  constantly;  Song  Sparrows  were 
piping  from  the  fence,  while  bees  droned  over  beds  of  calamus  in 
one  corner  or  paid  shorter  visits  to  blue-eyed  Marys  and  white 
violets  sprinkled  all  along  the  west  side,  where  they  had  the 
benefit  of  shade  and  moisture  from  the  adjoining  woods.  The 
Jay  could  be  heard  long  before  he  could  be  seen.  He  recognized 
the  carriage  as  something  new,  so  he  sounded  an  alarm,  until  he 
put  every  bird  of  the  orchard  on  guard  by  the  time  his  fence- 
corner  was  located. 

The  Jays  had  set  their  nest  on  a  limb  of  the  elm  which  made 
a  substantial  foundation,  so  studies  of  it  could  be  made  from  a 

294 


THE  BLUE  JAY 

step-ladder.  All  the  material  used  was  the  colour  of  the  bark 
of  the  tree,  while  the  nest  was  very  neat  for  Jays.  It  was  shaded 
by  masses  of  wild  grape-vines  and  Mother  Jay  was  serenely 
brooding  when  I  found  her.  The  first  thing  was  to  accustom  the 
Jays  to  my  presence  in  the  orchard,  then  to  try  for  studies  of  the 
gaudy  brooding  bird. 

So  I  sat  down  under  a  rambo  across  the  fence  from  the  elm 
and  studied  Jay  character.  Before  finishing  with  those  birds 
I  found  that  they  had  character  in  plenty,  but  of  a  kind  scarcely 
compatible  with  the  peace  of  other  birds.  Sooner  than  I 
expected,  the  racket  Father  Jay  made  at  my  intrusion  ceased, 
no  doubt  because  he  was  too  busy  protecting  his  mate  from 
the  Hawks  of  the  woods  to  bother  with  me;  so  I  moved 
closer. 

I  had  work  to  concentrate  my  attention  on  the  Jays, 
despite  all  a  series  of  such  well-known  and  characteristic 
birds  would  mean  to  me,  for  to  the  Lark's  call  and  the 
Sparrow's  lay  were  added  the  notes  of  the  Killdeer  down  at 
the  creek,  the  scream  of  Ganders  busy  guarding  their  feeding 
flocks,  the  gobble  of  the  Turkey-cock  from  the  dooryard,  the 
boasting  of  the  big  Brahma  Rooster  over  by  the  barn  every 
time  a  Hen  came  out  and  announced  that  she  had  laid  an  egg, 
while  June  at  her  prime  was  oozing  from  all  the  earth,  air 
and  sky. 

A  sound  which  caught  and  fastened  my  attention  on  the  Jays 
was  made  by  the  male  suddenly  screaming,  "D'jay!  D'jay! 
D  'jay!"  and  then  giving  almost  the  exact  imitation  of  a  Hawk's 
cry.  Looking  up  I  saw  one  of  those  big  birds  sweep  from  the 
woods  across  the  orchard.  Then  the  Jay  paid  the  farmer  his 
"keep,"  also  in  a  measure  atoned  for  his  meanness  to  other  birds; 
for  at  his  warning  every  chick  of  the  Yellow  Dorking  catching 
grasshoppers  in  the  orchard  ran  for  cover  with  never  a  cheep; 

295 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


A  baby  thrust  its  head  through  its  mother's  breast  feathers 
edge  of  the  nest  and  went  to  sleep" 


d  it  on  the  rough 


and  where  a  babel  of  bird-voices  had  commingled  before  that  cry, 
not  a  sound  was  heard  afterward.  Even  the  Lark  hurriedly 
dropped  to  earth  to  become  lost  in  the  wheat. 

But  Mother  Jay  bravely  remained  on  her  nest,  so  presently 
her  mate  came  slipping  between  the  trees  and  went  to  her  to  learn 
if  she  were  all  right.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  the  strident  rasp 
of  his  warning  and  the  tender  softly-modulated  rejoicing  in  which 
he  now  indulged  could  have  come  from  the  throat  of  the  same 
bird.  His  every,  action  proclaimed  that  he  had  come  to  tell  her 
how  he  loved  her;  that  she  need  never  have  a  fear  while  he  was  on 
guard.  Surely  that  was  what  he  told  her,  though  to  me  it 
sounded  like:  " Chinkle-choo,  tinkle,  tankle,  tunkle!  Rinkle, 
rankle,  runkle!  Tee,  chee,  twee?"  Then  he  flew  to  the  top  of 
the  tallest  tree  of  the  orchard  to  stand  guard  again. 

Gradually  I  moved  up,  until  I  stood  where  a  tripod  should  be 
296 


THE  BLUE  JAY 

placed,  but  the  brooding  bird  never  flinched.  Slowly  and  care- 
fully I  made  my  way  back  to  the  carriage  and  with  my  assistant 
brought  up  and  placed  a  twelve-foot  step-ladder,  then  mounted 
it  with  much  caution,  making  a  long  wait  on  each  step.  The  bird 
sat  so  securely  I  decided  her  eggs  had  quickened,  so  I  climbed 
down,  moved  the  ladder  nearly  under  her  branch,  mounted  again 
and  cut  away  grape-vines  and  small  twigs  that  would  be  out  of 
focus.  That  blessed  Jay  Bird  sat  there  while  I  used  the  clippers 
on  a  grape-leaf  not  four  inches  from  her  breast.  Then  I  placed 
the  ladder  exactly  right,  but  it  was  too  low,  so  I  added  a  mineral- 
water  box,  securing  it  with  the  hitching  strap.  Still  it  was  too 
low,  so  I  emptied  my  carrying  case  and  set  it  on  the  box,  then 
placed  the  camera  on  that.  Then  I  focussed  and  made  several 
studies  of  her.  Throughout  the  whole  proceeding,  which  was  not 


"The  baby  lifted  its  head,  opened  wide  its  yellow  mouth  and  asked  for  food" 

297 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

managed  with  my  usual  caution  toward  the  last,  when  she  proved 
so  hold,  Mother  Jay  sat,  her  beak  pointed  skyward  and  without 
giving  any  evidence  of  fear  or  indication  of  flight.  Then,  be- 
cause in  field  work  I  never  feel  sure  of  my  subject  from  one  day 
to  the  following,  I  reproduced  the  nest  with  its  five  beautiful 
eggs  before  leaving. 

When  I  went  back  early,  a  nestling  had  arrived  ahead  of  me, 
which  explained  why  its  mother  brooded  so  constantly  the 
previous  day.  For  several  days  I  called  on  them  securing  some 
interesting  study  at  each  visit.  Once  while  waiting  with  a  set 
camera  and  long  hose  in  the  hope  of  picturing  Father  Jay  feeding 
his  mate  or  nestlings,  a  bareheaded,  yellow-mouthed  baby  thrust 
its  head  from  under  its  mother's  breast,  and  using  the  hard 
rough  edge  of  the  nest  for  a  pillow,  went  fast  asleep.  I  gave  the 
bulb  one  frantic  grip,  then  hastened  up  the  ladder  to  turn  the 
plate-holder.  I  barely  had  it  inserted  when  a  wonderful  thing 
happened.  The  baby  lifted  its  head  and  opened  wide  its  yellow 
mouth  against  the  breast  of  its  mother.  For  an  instant  my 
fingers  flew  so  fast  I  was  scarcely  sure  I  had  caught  it.  The 
shutter  proved  I  had,  so  in  my  delight  I  called  to  my  assistant: 
"Look  here!  Quick!" 

"Take  it!"  he  shouted.     "Take  it!" 

"Well,  do  you  suppose  I  stopped  to  call  you  to  look  before  I 
did?"  I  questioned  reproachfully.  "I  never  have  seen  a  picture 
like  that  made  with  a  camera  or  drawn  by  an  artist.  I  truly 
believe  I  have  something  perfectly  new." 

"  Smart  Alec !  Smart  Alec !  Smart  Alec ! "  cried  Father  Jay, 
as  he  came  winging  into  the  elm  with  a  worm  in  his  beak,  which 
seemed  in  no  way  to  impede  his  utterance. 

So  to  prove  him  a  truthful  bird  I  thrust  another  holder  into 
the  camera  and  photographed  him  as  lie  fed  one  of  his  nestlings 
a  worm  while  at  the  same  time  Mother  Jay  emptied  a  cloaca. 


THE  BLUE  JAY 

. 

During  the  following  days  I  studied  those  Jays.  There 
was  little  new  to  tell.  They  did  eat  the  eggs  of  other  small  birds, 
and  the  newly  hatched  young  as  well,  they  even  tore  up  tiny 
nestlings  to  feed  to  their  babies.  They  did  impose  on  smaller 
birds,  torment  their  equals,  yet  act  the  coward  with  larger 
ones.  There  seemed  no  evenness  of  temperament  in  them.  At 
one  minute  they  came  slipping  through  the  trees,  cowards  in 
hiding;  the  following, gaining  a  sudden  access  of  courage, from  the 
top  bough  of  the  tallest  tree  in  the  orchard,  they  screamed  defi- 
ance to  all  creation,  bird,  beast  and  human. 

The  male  truly  was: 


"Mi*.  Bluejay  full  o'  sass, 
In  them  base-ball  clothes  o'  his." 


But  he  flew  to  his  home  base  instead  of  sliding,  for  he  kept  his 
suit  immaculate.  The  orchard  was  so  clean  and  the  creek  so 
near  he  had  no  excuse  to  be  otherwise,  while  he  asked  none, 
for  twice  and  three  times  a  day  he  went  to  the  water  to  bathe 
and  to  dress  every  feather  on  him  carefully,  always  ending  by 
polishing  his  beak. 

I  wanted  to  make  a  true  character-study  of  him  alone — 
one  that  would  index  him  without  a  label;  one  that  would  show 
him  as  he  screamed  Hawk-like  when  on  guard.  But  I  could  see 
no  way  to  photograph  him  away  from  his  nest,  while  he  was 
not  the  same  bird  ctose  his  cradle,  when  he  felt  weighted  with 
family  cares. 

I  never  have  secured  a  -pdcture  by  giving  it  up,  so  I  sat  under 
a  winesap  in  line  with  the  rambo  to  study  the  situation  closely. 
There  I  saw  something.  Blue  Jay  frequently  went  over  in  the 
wheat  beside  the  fence  to  catch  small  worms  and  grasshoppers. 

301 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Every  time  he  came  back  from  the  west,  lie  broke  his  long  flight 
by  perching  an  instant  on  a  tall  stump  in  another  fence-corner 
surrounded  by  a  growth  of  hickory  and  sycamore  sprouts. 

I  set  up  the  camera,  leaned  two  rails  against  the  fence  on  each 
side  of  it,  covered  it  with  green  leaves  and  attached  the  long  hose. 
The  scheme  worked  perfectly.  I  took  three  pictures  of  the 
full-grown  Jay,  a  rare  one  with  swollen  throat  as  he  screamed 
defiance,  seemingly  in  answer  to  the  cry  of  an  old  Gander  down 
by  the  creek;  one  with  closed  beak;  and  one  of  the  female,  all 
sharp  and  strong  enough  to  enlarge  beautifully. 

These  studies  proved  it  quite  true  that  most  birds  select  a 
route  by  which  to  come  to  and  leave  a  nest.  If  you  watch  them 
you  can  nearly  always  discover  it.  Sometimes  the  female  and  male 
approach  from  different  sides,  each  coming  and  leaving  by  their 
own  routes.  Both  these  Jays  entered  their  tree  by  way  of  the 
stump,  coming  from  the  west;  and  by  way  of  one  certain  branch 
of  the  rambo  when  coming  from  the  orchard.  Many  other 
birds  follow  this  custom.  The  Cardinals  I  knew  best  each  had  a 
path  coming  to  and  leaving  the  nest,  from  which  they  never 
varied  unless  some  sound  startled  them.  A  pair  of  Baltimore 
Orioles  I  knew  well  both  used  the  same  route  in  approach  and 
leaving. 

On  the  morning  the  oldest  Jay  baby  first  investigated  the 
apple-tree,  I  posed  him,  with  his  mates,  on  a  maple  limb  and 
took  their  pictures.  Some  young  birds  are  worse  subjects  while 
some  are  better,  but  I  seldom  have  made  a  finer  baby  picture. 
Their  colours  were  similar  to  their  elders,  not  quite  so  strong  as 
they  would  be  after  a  first  moulting,  while  their  feather-markings 
were  the  same.  Their  beaks  always  were  wTide  open,  and  how 
Father  Jay  worked!  Every  few  minutes  he  came  slipping  into 
the  elm  to  feed  a  nestling,  and  then  left  in  a  hurry  to  bring  an- 
other lunch;  but  always  he  paused  on  a  near-by  tree  and 

302 


THE  BLUE  JAY 

called  back  to  Mother  Jay:  "Fill  the  kittle!  Fill  the  kittle1 
Fill  the  tea-kittle." 

My  feelings  concerning  the  Jay  are  varied.  I  admit  all  his 
bad  traits,  but  there  is  in  his  favour  the  fact  that  he  so  perfectly 
imitates  the  cries  of  several  birds  of  p*ey  that  he  saves  many  of 
the  woodland  folk  from  Hawks;  whether  as  many  as  he  destroys, 
I  have  no  way  to  determine,  but  I  think  so.  He  is  forever 
guarding  the  woods,  while  every  bird  of  field  and  forest  knows 
his  signals  and  heeds  them,  to  that  I  certainly  can  testify;  for 
lying  in  hiding,  I  repeatedly  have  seen  birds  take  to  cover  at  his 
warning  when  it  required  some  time  for  me  to  discover  what  was 
coming;  but  always  he  was  a  true  prophet,  for  something  came, 
either  a  hunter,  Hawk,  Owl,  Crow,  squirrel,  snake,  or  close 
houses,  sometimes  a  hungry  cat. 

These  alarm  cries  are  not  pleasant,  but  that  the  wood-folk 
heed  them  should  prove  that  they  appreciate  and  are  grateful 
for  them.  He  is  a  spot  of  brilliant  colour  around  our  homes  in 
winter  when  birds  are  scarce,  while  his  "D'jay,  D'jay!"  cry  is  a 
cheery  and  welcome  sound,  proving  as  it  does  that  we  are  not 
altogether  deserted.  In  courting  he  carries  on  a  long,  low  con- 
versation far  down  in  his  throat,  while  his  tones  are  sweet  and 
musical.  Not  only  do  Jays  use  this  sweet  throaty  murmuring  in 
pairs  when  courting,  but  throughout  the  season  they  congregate 
in  small  flocks  to  have  a  party. 

There  is  one  big  maple  on  the  banks  of  the  Wabash,  beneath 
which  I  have  caught  a  few  black  bass,  where  the  Jays  for  years 
have  gathered  at  intervals  for  one  of  their  tree  parties.  At  least 
half  a  dozen  collect  in  the  tree  perching  close  together.  One 
begins  to  chatter,  jabber,  chuckle  and  murmur.  Another  joins 
him,  then  the  whole  company,  then  one  continues  alone,  several 
more  join  in,  and  again  the  whole  flock  unite  in  a  sweet,  inquiring, 
throaty  vocalizing  that  is  music  in  which  I  delight.  The  Brown 

305 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

Thrush  chants  exquisitely  from  a  thorn  opposite;  the  Oriole  flings 
golden  notes  on  wing;  while  the  clear,  strong  whistle  of  the 
Cardinal  carries  beautifully  with  the  water;  but  the  undertones 
of  the  Jays  are  a  minor  melody  which  fills  in  the  pauses  of  these 
star  performers  with  constant  harmony. 


YOUNG   JAY 


306 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  Loggerhead  Shrike:     Lanius  Ludovicdanus 

IN   FIELD    TREES 

:.  .^      ,   •'  SHRIKES  like  open  fields  and 

sunlit  distances.  These  settled 
east  of  the  Cabin,  on  the  Stanley 
farm,  in  a  scrub  apple-tree  be- 
neath which  four  fields  cornered. 
t  Mr.  Bob  Burdette  Black  told  me 
of  them.  As  he  appears  so  fre- 
quently in  my  bird-chronicles,  a 
few  words  concerning  him  are  ap- 
propriate. 

Bob  has  played  with  birds, 
raised  them  by  hand  and  be- 
friended them  ever  since  child- 
hood. He  has  studied  them  in  half  a  dozen  different  states,  so 
he  knows  them  well.  He  was  the  manager  of  a  large  oil-lease 
lying  on  the  Wabash  River  where  it  had  a  strip  of  thicket  on  one 
side  and  a  heavy  forest  on  the  other.  He  held  this  position  be- 
cause of  his  love  of  the  woods,  for  from  Pennsylvania  to  Colorado 
he  is  familiar  with  all  outdoors.  When  the  machinery  of  his 
leases  ran  smoothly,  Bob  went  out  and  searched  the  fields,  river- 
banks  and  woods  for  bird-nests.  He  located  them  in  large  num- 
bers, then  escorted  me  to  them,  often  carrying  heavy  Cameras 
and  ladders.  More  than  this,  when  I  was  crowded  with  field 

309 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

work  he  trained  a  pair  of  birds  by  setting  up  three  sticks  for  a 
tripod,  using  a  soap  box  for  a  camera,  with  an  old  coat  for  a 
focussing  cloth,  until  by  the  time  I  reached  them  they  were  neither 
man-shy  nor  camera-shy.  His  leases  were  covered  with  Martin 
and  Bluebird  boxes,  timid  forest  birds  builded  close  his  power- 
houses, often  in  the  very  trees  under  which  his  hammock  swung. 

Bob  passed  the  Shrike  corner  on  the  way  between  two  wells, 
and  he  told  nie  of  the  enterprise  in  the  apple-tree.  There  was  no 
other  tree  close.  Four  lines  of  old  snake-fences,  bearing  their 
usual  load  of  treasures,  crept  to  a  meeting  under  its  friendly 
boughs.  Above  it  was  a  clear  broad  sweep  of  summer  sky,  across 
which  birds  from  the  woods  constantly  trailed  in  a  broken  line  of 
flight  to  bathe  or  to  hunt  food  at  the  river.  Beneath  it  Stanley's 
sleek  herd,  with  the  beringed  ears  denoting  beasts  of  high  degree, 
chewed  their  cuds,  switched  flies  and  welcomed  the  ministrations 
of  a  large  flock  of  Cow-birds. 

Subjects  were  located  in  each  of  those  four  fields.  In  one, 
under  an  arch  of  growing  wheat,  I  had  made  a  study  of  a  Lark's 
beautiful  nest  and  was  waiting  for  the  young  to  hatch.  Through 
the  adjoining  clover-field  Bob  and  I  hunted  ceaselessly  for  the 
nest  of  a  Bobolink,  which  strutted  the  rod-line,  playing  the  clown 
while  pouring  out  a  lilting  melody  that  at  times  seemed  especially 
improvised  to  mock  our  unavailing  efforts  to  find  his  home. 

At  any  rate  the  search  was  a  delight,  for  the  perfume  of  clover 
was  heavy  on  the  air,  the  drowsy  hum  of  big  bumblebees, 
staggering  on  wing  with  loads  of  gold,  was  a  lulling  sound ;  singing 
grasshoppers,  beautifully  coloured  and  striped,  feasted  here; 
satin-winged  butterflies  wavered  over  the  field  while  the  Bobolink 
swung  on  the  rod-line  straining  his  throat  to  produce  notes  suffi- 
ciently sweet  to  tell  it  all  to  the  brooding  mate  we  were  seeking. 

Once  this  search  for  the  Bobolink  became  a  terror.  Early  in 
the  morning  while  passing  the  field  he  flew  across  the  road  in  front 

310 


THE  LOGGERHEAD  SHRIKE 

of  me  with  a  worm  in  his  beak,  alighting  in  the  clover.  Imme- 
diately I  was  over  the  fence,  watching  the  spot  where  the  bird 
had  disappeared.  On  reaching  it  I  began  circling  around, 
searching  for  the  nest.  The  clover  had  been  blown  down  when 
at  a  height  of  eighteen  inches  so  the  tops  had  lifted  making  a 
second  equal  growth.  I  was  catching  handfuls  of  clover,  lifting 
it  straight  from  the  roots  to  see  if  the  nest  were  hidden  beneath 
the  parts  which  lay  on  the  ground. 

In  doing  this  I  uncovered,  not  the  Bobolink's  nest,  but  the 
largest  snake  I  ever  have  seen  in  freedom.  Its  body  was  thick 
as  my  upper  arm,  while  it  coiled  round  and  round  in  a  big  heap, 
its  head  on  top.  When  the  light  and  air  struck  it,  the  skin 
seemed  to  gather  in  rolls  on  its  body,  its  eyes  blinkingly  opened 
and  closed  in  a  dazed  manner  while  an  undulating  movement  ran 
the  length  of  it. 

My  horror  of  snakes  is  complete.  One  instant  I  stood  as 
if  paralyzed,  gazing  at  it;  the  next  I  started  to  the  Cabin,  never 
stopping  until  it  was  reached.  Later  in  the  day  I  recovered  my 
senses,  enough  to  lead  a  guide  to  the  spot,  only  to  find  a  hollow 
of  earth  fifteen  inches  across,  worn  smooth  and  scattered  with 
patches  of  snake-skin.  The  snake  had  been  in  the  act  of  shed- 
ding; probably  it  would  have  remained  some  time  as  it  was,  so 
by  my  foolishness  I  missed  an  opportunity  to  take  one  of  the4 
greatest  natural-history  pictures  imaginable. 

One  of  the  fields  was  an  open  meadow  of  short  grass.  A  pair 
of  cotton-tails  had  a  burrow  there  which  contained  two  normal 
babiesandonedwarf ,  a  mite  no  larger  than  my  thumb  but  two  weeks 
old.  Here,  attended  by  the  Cow-birds,  the  cattle  grazed,  while 
occasionally,  when  temptation  became  irresistible,  they  pushed 
down  the  fence  to  invade  the  clover.  Then  how  the  Bobolink 
danced  and  scolded!  And  how  I  danced  and  scolded  when  the 
heat  ruffled  the  temper  of  the  leader  of  the  herd,  until,  lowering  his 

311 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 


NEST    AND    EGGS    OF   SHRIKE 


big  head  with  a  rumble  like  distant  thunder,  he  came  my  way 
threateningly,  so  I  had  to  gather  my  paraphernalia  and  hastily 
retreat.  In  the  fourth  field  under  the  protecting  leaf  of  a  thistle 
growing  near  the  oats,  a  Chewink  fed  four  babies,  not  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  rabbit's  burrow  in  the  adjoining  field. 

At  the  central  corner  of  these  four  fields  grew  the  little  scrub 
apple-tree  in  which  the  Shrikes  located,  probably  because  of  the 
myriads  of  grasshoppers  and  insects  within  one  sweep  of  flight, 

312 


THE  LOGGERHEAD  SHRIKE 

while  it  was  only  a  short  distance  to  wire  fences  decorated  with 
wool,  and  the  Stanley  chicken  yard,  which  furnished  the  lining 
and  trimming  of  the  nest.  It  was  a  larger  structure  than  a 
Robin's. 

Mother  Shrike  laid  five  grayish  eggs,  sprinkled  with  brownish 
ash.  Father  Shrike  fed  her  as  she  brooded.  When  she  went  to 
bathe  he  stood  sentinel  so  no  sneaking  Cow-bird  imposed  on  his 
family,  nor  did  thieving  Crow  eat  his  eggs  or  young.  Occa- 
sionally, to  prove  that  he  was  more  nearl\r  related  to  the  Vireo 
and  the  Robin  than  to  the  Hawk  family,  Father  Shrike  perched 
on  a  fence-post  repeating  a  few  notes  that  made  the  Crow  laugh, 
drove  away  the  Cow-birds  and  sent  the  Bobolink  dancing  down 
the  rod-line  chattering  with  every  feather  awry.  "I  have,"  is 
my  answer  to  Maurice  Thompson's  poetical  question  as  to: 
"Who  has  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  Loggerhead  Shrike 
that  tried  to  sing?" 

The  old  Shrikes  were  very  friendly.  They  soon  paid  small 
heed  to  my  work  with  them.  But  there  is  no  place  for  pictures 
of  them  unless  reproductions  of  their  family  run  short.  The 
young  were  marked  exactly  like  their  parents,  also  very  similar 
in  colour  effect,  while  they  were  lovable.  The  grown  birds 
differed  in  having  the  gray  parts  of  the  feathering  a  solid  colour, 
a  more  prominent  hook  on  the  beak,  while  their  length  of  wing 
and  tail  destroyed  in  them  the  plump  appearance  of  the  babies. 
At  a  short  distance  no  difference  could  be  noticed  except  in  shape. 

The  youngsters  filled  their  cradle  to  overflowing.  They  were 
impartial,  allowing  Bob  or  me  to  feed  them.  The  parts  of  their 
food  they  could  not  assimilate  they  regurgitated  in  little  oblong 
pellets.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  calculating  the  number  of 
insects  consumed  in  that  nest  in  a  day.  The  old  birds  kept  up  a 
gteady  flight  while  Bob  and  I  wearied  ourselves,  yet  the  five 
squalling  beaks  were  always  wide  open.  If  any  baby  failed  to 

315 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

receive  a  morsel,  it  caught  one  of  its  nest-mates  by  the  bill  or 
wing  and  tried  to  swallow  it.  To  watch  the  performance  made  one 
doubt  if  a  baby  with  two  sound  eyes  could  leave  the  nest.  Father 
Shrike  might  have  warbled  all  day,  but  he  could  not  have  effaced 
the  Hawk-like  tendencies  of  his  brood. 

Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  the  wildest  and  worst-tempered  Hawk 
can  be  tamed  into  the  most  docile  and  obedient  of  pets.  Young 
Hawks  taken  from  a  nest  and  raised  by  hand  are  so  easily  domes- 
ticated that  after  a  few  weeks  of  feeding  they  may  be  released  and 
will  live  on  the  roof  of  a  house  or  among  the  trees,  coming  at  call. 

While  in  the  nest  the  baby  Shrikes  squalled  and  fought;  a  few 
days  after  leaving  it,  when  foraging  for  themselves,  they  perched 
in  the  trees  and  on  fences  of  those  fields,  in  attitudes  of  such  re- 
markable poise  and  dignity  as  would  be  difficult  to  equal  in  young 
birds. 

Then  what  beauties  they  were!  They  had  plump,  cunningly 
shaped  bodies,  while  in  the  nest  they  were  the  only  birds  I  ever 
have  seen  that  could  lay  claim  to  the  term  "dimpled."  Their 
feathering  was  extremely  fine  ancj  close.  Next  their  bodies  these 
tiny  silken  feathers  were  white,  the  tips  shaded  to  palest  gray 
very  faintly  marked  with  black.  The  whole  effect  was  of  a 
delicate  whitish  gray,  almost  invisibly  touched  with  black. 
They  had  jet-black  dashes  running  from  the  corners  of  the  mouth 
across  the  eye  to  the  back  of  the  ear,  while  the  tail-  and  wing- 
feathers  were  white,  touched  with  black  exactly  like  their  elders. 
They  were  amazingly  friendly  little  creatures,  doing  such  attractive 
things.  They  delighted  to  be  fed  and  petted,  responding  to 
friendly  advances  in  surprising  manner. 

Anyone  would  have  liked  them.  I  was  afield  for  character 
studies.  Here  were  birds  of  complex  character  having  most 
peculiar  tendencies.  My  task  was  to  reproduce  their  varying 
moods.  Their  pictures  shall  prove  if  I  succeeded  in  portraying 

316 


THE  LOGGERHEAD  SHRIKE 

in  them  the  traits  described.  I  pictured  them  over  and  over,  in 
groups,  singly  and  in  pairs:  head-pieces,  tail-pieces  and  initials 
were  made  with  them.  All  it  required  was  kindness,  patience 
and  grasshoppers,  to  coax  them  into  any  position;  but  they 
always  manifested  their  character.  You  could  catch  them  look- 
ing very  dignified,  but  never  Dove-like. 

On  the  whole  I  doubt  if  birdland  contains  more  interesting 
and  beautiful  babies.  Work  around  them  was  most  entertaining, 
with  the  exception  of  the  snake  and  the  leader  of  the  Stanley  herd. 
It  would  be  delightful  if  all  birds  had  the  Shrikes'  trusting  dis- 
position and  chose  their  beautiful  and  accessible  locations.  They 
furnished  subjects  for  some  of  my  most  characteristic  work  with 
birds,  while  I  yet  can  smell  the  clover  and  hear  the  Bobolink. 


"All  it  required  was  patience  and  grasshoppers  to  coax  them  into  any  position' 


317 


"I  like 
The  shrike, 

Because,  with  a  thorn  for  a  guillotine, 
He  does  his  work  so  well  and  clean, 
A  critic  keen — - 
A  practical  bird, 
Whose  common  sense 
Must  be  immense, 
For,  tell  me,  who  has  ever  heard 

Of  such  a  thing 
As  a  loggerhead  shrike  that  tried  to  sing?" 

— Thompson. 


318 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  Humming-bird:     Trochilus  Colubris 

AROUND    THE    CABIN 

WHEN  Mr.  McCollum  sent  me 
word  that  one  of  his  sons  had  lo- 
cated the  nest  of  a  Humming-bird, 
I  travelled  the  same  road  I  had 
gone  over  earlier  in  the  season  to 
the  haunt  of  the  Rail.  The  fact 
that  all  nature  had  advanced  a  few 
weeks  nearer  fruition  made  the  trip 
none  the  less  delightful.  We  found 
the  location  in  deep  forest  in  a 
small  ironwood  tree;  the  nest  so 
little  that  only  by  a  miracle  had 
anyone  ever  seen  it  at  all. 

The  tiny  cradle  was  built  of 
lichens  lined  with  chestnut-coloured 
down  fine  as  silk,  saddled  on  a  limb 
twice  the  thickness  of  a  lead-pencil, 
and  bound  fast  with  cobwebs.  A 
silver  dollar  laid  on  top  would  have 
sheltered  it  perfectly  during  a  rainstorm.  There  were  no  eggs, 
and  as  it  had  been  discovered  ten  days  before  and  the  tree  bent 
to  examine  it  while  the  birds  had  been  building,  I  concluded 
they  had  abandoned  it.  I  am  sure  it  was  completed  outside, 
but  I  do  not  know  that  it  was  finished  within.  Because  it  was 

321 


"It  soon  revived  until  it  could 

cling  to  a  dead  twig 

on  the  bush" 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

the  daintiest  piece  of  bird  architecture  of  my  experience  a  picture 
was  made  of  it  even  when  it  was  empty. 

But  I  have  had  three  real  experiences  with  Humming-birds. 
The  first,  when  one  of  them  mistook  the  front  window  of  the 
Cabin  for  a  pool  of  water,  and  in  trying  to  fly  across  it  struck  the 
glass  full  force  and  fell  stunned.  I  heard  the  blow,  hastened  to 
pick  up  the  bird,  and  while  trying  to  think  what  could  be  done 
for  it  I  saw  that  it  was  reviving  and  soon  it  flew  away. 

Whenever  Molly  Cotton  enters  the  Cabin  alone,  simultane- 
ously with  the  setting  of  a  foot  on  the  threshold  she  always  sings 
out:  "Mother!"  One  inflection  she  gives  that  call  means:  "Are 
you  at  home?"  Another:  "May  I  go  to  Sarah's?"  And  yet  a 
third,  which  sends  me  flying  at  the  first  tone  of  it,  means  a  heart- 
break. This  day  came  the  trouble  call,  sharply  defined  as  the 
alarm-cry  of  my  Robin.  Molly-Cotton  stood  in  the  doorway 
with  big  excited  eyes  shining  from  a  background  of  flushed 
cheeks  and  flying  hair.  On  her  outstretched  palm  lay  a  ruby- 
throated  Humming-bird,  both  wings  widely  spread,  but  making 
no  attempt  to  fly. 

"Doctor  it!"  she  demanded. 

Is  there  anything  more  difficult  for  a  mother  than  falling- 
short  of  what  her  child  expects  of  her?  I  did  not  know  anything 
to  do  for  a  sick  Humming-bird,  those  daintiest  creatures  of  nec- 
tar and  sunshine,  but  as  I  looked  on  Molly-Cotton's  distressed 
and  eager  face,  I  knew  I  could  not  tell  her  so.  Of  course  I  real- 
ized there  would  come  the  inevitable  hour  when  I  would  not  be 
able  to  furnish  "balm  for  every  wound,"  but  I  could  not  fail  her- 
then,  so  I  temporized. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?  Do  you  know  what  is  the  trouble 
with  it?" 

"I  gave  a  boy  my  soda  dime  for  it.  It's  hurt  with  a  sling- 
shot." 

322 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

" '  Hurt  with  a  sling-shot ! '"  I  cried.  "  He'd  better  be  punished 
instead  of  paid  for  that  trick." 

"But,  Mother,"  said  Molly-Cotton,  "the  boy  who  had  it 
wasn't  the  boy  who  hurt  it — that's  why  I  bought  it;  and,"  she 
added  with  characteristic  justice,  "the  boy  who  hurt  it  ran.  He 
was  awful  sorry.  He  just  shot.  He  didn't  think  he  could  ever 
hit  it.  Really,  it  was  an  accident!" 

"And  that  is  the  way  almost  every  song-bird  that  is  shot  meets 
its  fate,"  I  retorted  angrily.  "Men  always  must  try  if  they  can 
hit  a  thing,  then  when  a  bird  as  brilliant  as  a  butterfly  or  a  flower 
falls  they  are  surprised  and  so  sorry  that  it  is  dead-  They  only 
wanted  to  see  if  they  could  hit  it.  It  is  the  old  excuse." 

Molly-Cotton  advanced  a  step  holding  out  the  bird.  "Well 
Mother!"  she  said.  "Aren't  you  going  to  do  something?" 

"Take  it  into  the  conservatory,"  I  answered,  striving  to 
collect  my  senses.  First  aid  to  an  injured  Humming-bird! 
What  would  it  be?  Of  course  its  back  was  almost  or  quite 
broken,  from  those  wide-spread  motionless  wings,  the  heavy 
breathing  and  the  eyes  protruding  with  pain.  From  a  box  of 
abandoned  nests  a  large  one  was  selected  with  some  fine  twigs  in 
the  bottom,  to  which  the  bird  was  transferred  with  care. 

Wounded  people  are  always  thirsty,  so  I  proposed  to  give  it  a 
drink  of  sweetened  water.  Molly-Cotton  ran  for  a  teaspoon 
and  the  sugar,  then  we  held  a  few  drops  of  sweetened  water  to 
the  bird's  bill.  At  the  touch  of  it  the  little  creature  drank  and 
drank  and  ran  its  slender  thread-like  tongue  over  the  bowl  of  the 
spoon,  searching  for  particles  of  sugar.  Every  hour  that  after- 
noon it  was  given  more.  When  Molly-Cotton  came  from  school 
she  carried  it  honeysuckle  and  trumpet-creeper  blooms,  and 
when  either  honey  from  the  flowers  or  sweetened  water  was  put 
against  its  beak  it  ate  and  drank. 

I  confidently  expected  that  it  would  be  dead  by  morning, 

323 


FRIENDS  IX  FEATHERS 

but  instead  it  had  folded  its  wings  and  before  the  day  was  over 
was  clinging  to  the  twigs  with  its  feet.  Then  I  took  courage 
and  went  to  work  in  earnest.  I  put  it  in  a  cool  shaded  place, 
adding  hard-boiled  egg  thinned  almost  to  liquid  to  its  diet,  and 
by  the  third  morning  it  could  walk  and  had  climbed  on  the  edge 
of  the  nest.  When  I  saw  that,  "It  is  going  to  get  well,  sure  as 
fate!"  I  cried  to  Molly-Cotton. 

"It's  going  to  get  well!  It's  going  to  get  well!"  exulted  the 
Girlie,  dancing  for  joy. 

Straightway  she  exacted  a  promise  that  she  should  be  the  one 
to  open  the  door  and  give  it  freedom,  which  surely  was  her  right. 
Then  she  thought  of  another  world  to  conquer. 

The  night  before  Bob  had  brought  me  a  little  reddish-brown 
mother  bat,  weighted  with  four  babies  clinging  to  her  body. 
I  was  to  photograph  them  that  day,  then  put  them  back  where 
they  had  been  before  night.  Molly-Cotton  thought  the  bat 
should  be  fed  also.  She  argued  that  if  the  bat  had  been  free  the 
night  before,  her  mate  would  have  fed  her  and  with  those  four 
babies  to  care  for  she  must  be  almost  famished.  So  I  was  called 
upon,  in  all  confidence,  to  tell  what  bats  ate. 

I  told  her  we  could  not  get  for  a  bat,  in  daytime,  what  it 
found  on  wing  at  night,  but  I  thought  it  could  do  no  possible 
hurt,  so  I  suggested  fresh,  warm  milk.  Molly-Cotton  took  a 
nickel  from  her  purse  and  sped  to  a  neighbour's  for  milk,  while  I 
whittled  out  a  tiny  wooden  paddle.  We  dipped  this  into  the 
milk  and  held  it  to  the  bat's  nose.  She  instantly  seized  it  be- 
tween her  sharp  little  teeth  sucking  and  gnawing  at  it.  She 
would  not  let  go,  so  we  took  the  Humming-bird's  spoon  and 
dropped  milk  a  drop  at  a  time  on  the  paddle.  That  bat  turned 
up  her  head  and  drank  and  drank  like  a  famished  creature. 

We  had  a  splendid  chance  to  study  her  face.  It  was  shaped 
like  a  young  pig's,  only  natter.  She  had  a  small,  round,  flat 

324 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

nose  like  a  pig's,  a  face  very  similar,  and  ears  round  like  a  mouse's, 
instead  of  pointed.  Her  fur  was  silken  fine  and  of  beautiful 
colour.  Each  of  the  four  babies  was  a  miniature  of  the  mother. 
When  she  was  quite  satisfied  she  let  go  the  paddle  and  went  to 
sleep.  Until  her  picture  was  taken  and  she  was  returned  to 
freedom,  Molly-Cotton  fed  her  milk,  which  she  took  eagerly  at 
every  offering. 

When  we  were  congratulating  ourselves  that  the  Humming- 
bird was  saved,  came  disaster.  I  do  not  know  why  I  was  so 
thoughtless.  Its  ability  to  climb  to  the  edge  of  the  nest  should 
have  warned  me.  The  bird  tried  its  first  flight,  but  fell  from  the 
shelf  on  which  the  nest  was  placed,  five  feet  to  the  cement  floor 
and  died  in  a  few  seconds. 

Our  next  Humming-bird  experience  was  short.  I  met  Mr. 
Hale  on  the  way  to  the  post-office.  "Hold  fast  all  I  give  you," 
he  said,  reaching  out  a  hand.  What  I  got  was  a  Humming-bird 
lying  on  its  back,  its  eyes  closed,  its  feet  drawn  up  among  its 
feathers,  seemingly  dead. 

"Found  that  among  the  sweet  peas  this  morning,"  he  said. 
"It  forgot  to  migrate  and  took  a  chill."  It  was  October  and  the 
night  had  been  heavy  with  frost. 

I  cupped  both  hands  around  the  bird  and  on  reaching  the 
Cabin  could  see  that  it  was  alive.  I  gradually  warmed  it  until  it 
opened  its  eyes.  Then  I  told  Molly-Cotton  to  bring  me  four 
grains  (granules)  of  granulated  sugar,  with  one  drop  of  tincture 
of  ginger  and  five  of  water  added  to  them.  We  held  this  mixture 
to  the  bird's  bill  and  it  drank  feebly.  In  a  short  time  it  began 
to  ruffle  its  feathers  and  shiver. 

Then  I  sent  Molly-Cotton  to  carry  my  camera  to  the  south 
side  of  the  Cabin,  where  she  had  a  La  France  rose  bush  in  full 
bloom  that  we  had  covered  during  the  night.  I  followed  with 
the  bird.  It  soon  revived  until  it  could  cling  to  a  dead  twig  on 

325 


ERIEXDS  IX  FEATHERS 

the  bush,  though  its  tail  was  tucked,  its  feathers  ruffled  and  it 
appeared  chilly.  We  were  running  no  risks,  so  we  took  its  pic- 
ture. I  should  have  taken  the  first  one  while  it  lay  on  its  back, 
to  all  appearances  a  dead  bird,  but  I  did  not  think  of  it  until  too 
late. 

I  put  in  a  new  plate,  then  when  all  was  ready  Molly-Cotton 
gave  the  bird  another  drink,  a  big  generous  one.  The  air  was 
rapidly  wanning  with  the  rising  sun  and  the  bird  now  revived  to 
the  point  of  feeling  dishevelled,  for  it  ruffled  its  feathers,  shook 
them  and  laid  them  so  they  looked  very  sleek.  The  little  thing 
felt  spruce  indeed,  considering  a  few  moments  before,  so  I 
made  a  second  exposure.  While  I  was  hurrying  to  change  a 
plate  for  a  third,  the  bird  hopped  to  a  twig  above  it,  gave  its  tail 
and  wings  a  flirt  then  with  a  whizz  darted  over  the  nearest  trees 
and  in  a  bee-line,  as  far  as  we  could  follow  him,  sailed  toward  the 
South. 


THE   XEST   OF   A    HU.MMIXG-BIRD 


320 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  Quail:     Colinus  Virginidnus 

ON    THE   GROUND 

WITH  the  combined  meadows, 
wheat  fields  and  orchards  of  the 
Stanley  and  Aspy  farms,  as  well  as 
a  mile-stretch  of  grassy  river-bank 
from'  which  to  choose,  Mrs.  Bob 
White  paid  Mr.  Bob  Black  the  com- 
pliment of  coming  within  a  rod  of 
his  engine-house,  two  yards  from 
his  foot-path  to  select  her  building 
site.  When  Bob  pointed  out  the 
nest  to  me  I  was  amazed.. 

The  churning  of  the  big  engine 
that  furnished  power  to  pump 
many  wells,  some  of  them  half  a 
mile  away,  shook  the  earth  under 
her  location.  The  exhaust  pipe 
shrieked  until  close  it  the  explo- 
sions were  deafening.  All  day  long  the  rod-lines  rattled  while 
steady  streams  of  oil  poured  into  the  big  tanks.  Bob,  with 
pointer  always  to  heel,  passed  over  the  path  many  times  a  day. 
I  traversed  it  daily,  while  there  was  a  steady  flow  of  children's 
feet  rushing  to  the  river  to  play  and  back  to  Bob  to  borrow  fish- 
lines,  corks,  hooks,  knives — anything  a  boy  could  use  beside  the 
water. 

329 


NEST   OF  QUAIL 

Containing  seventeen  eggs 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

There  came  the  Quail  to  brood.  I  wonder  why.  Did  she 
like  company?  Did  she  prefer  to  keep  house  where  she  could 
hear  sounds  and  see  people?  Had  she  lingered  around  the  place 
until  she  had  lost  all  fear  of  it  and  hoped  in  the  noise  and  prox- 
imity to  humanity  to  find  protection  from  her  natural  enemies,  the 
snake,  boy,  squirrel  and  Owl? 

Bob  never  knew  the  bird  was  there  until  Gypsy  made  a  point 
at  her,  then  she  was  brooding  on  seventeen  eggs.  The  nest  was 
constructed  on  the  ground.  The  builder  had  slipped  through 
the  long  hair-like  grasses  until  she  found  a  slight  depression  shel- 
tered by  a  small  spray  of  wild  grape-vine.  There  she  sat  down 
and  turned  around  until  she  worked  out  a  flat  bowl-shaped  place, 
from  which  she  picked  away  the  blades  of  green  grass,  using  the 
dead  ones  for  lining.  The  taller  grasses  closed  over  her  while  the 
grape-vine  screened  her  from  the  sight  of  the  man,  but  not  from 
the  scent  of  the  dog. 

Her  nest  was  beautiful.  I  like  to  think  she  built  it  there 
because  she  had  placed  herself  under  Bob's  protection.  This 
idea  of  shy  wood-things  creeping  to  him,  because  they  knew 
he  was  their  friend  and  champion,  makes  me  proud  that  he  is  my 
friend  also.  Those  seventeen  eggs  were  freshly  laid,  bluish  white 
and  sharply  pointed  at  one  end.  The  picture  they  made  was  a 
novelty  on  account  of  their  number. 

After  we  had  secured  a  fair  study  of  the  nest  we  waited  for 
the  young.  We  knew  our  ornithology  well  enough  to  be  aware 
that  there  was  small  hope  of  reproducing  them,  for  a  Quail  lays 
all  her  eggs  before  she  begins  to  brood,  so  that  the  young  emerge 
at  once  and  travel  before  their  down  is  quite  dry.  While  we 
waited  for  these  nestlings  I  had  rare  luck  in  securing  two  good 
studies  of  grown  Quail  in  the  Limberlost,  so  I  did  not  bother  these 
old  ones. 

We  did  not  know  how  many  of  the  twenty-three  days  of 

330 


THE  QUAIL 

incubation  had  passed  before  Gypsy  found  the  nest,  but  when 
we  thought  the  time  for  the  brood  to  emerge  was  close  I  was  on 
hand  and  ready.  A  three-days'  wait  made  me  careless;  the 
following  day  I  did  not  reach  the  lease  until  nine  o'clock.  The 
tailpiece  of  this  chapter  shows  what  I  had  for  my  trouble.  Not 
much,  you  think? 

That  one  little  picture  helps  to  settle  two  questions  long  in 
dispute  concerning  the  Quail.  Many  writers  contend  that  young 
Quail  remain  in  the  nest  some  time  after  they  emerge.  They 
go  before  they  are  thoroughly  dry  and  feed  themselves  from  the 
start.  The  proud  father,  with  head  feathers  flared  to  a  crest 
and  hackle  bristling,  leads  the  way,  the  young  follow,  the  mother 
brings  up  the  rear.  When  either  old  bird  sights  a  morsel  fit  for 
the  young  to  eat  it  calls  the  chicks  to  come  and  with  its  bill  indi- 
cates what  is  to  be  eaten,  often  breaking  the  food  up  so  that  as 
many  as  possible  shall  get  a  bite.  The  young  had  left  this  nest  so 
soon  after  hatching  that  the  shells  were  warm,  while  flies  and  ants 
were  gathering  over  them,  attracted  by  tiny  fresh  blood  vessels  in 
the  lining. 

Also  these  shells  seemed  to  prove  that  the  mother  had 
gone  over  each  egg  at  time  for  emergence  and  with  her  sharp, 
strong  bill  cut  the  shell  and  lining  in  halves,  releasing  the  young. 
I  had  been  contradicted  so  frequently  on  this  statement  that  I 
had  quit  making  it,  until  this  nest  of  shells  was  found.  They 
clearly  show  that  the  work  is  done  from  the  outside,  as  a  deep 
rim  is  bent  in,  the  lining  cut  instead  of  torn,  and  each  shell  divided 
exactly  in  halves. 

There  was  pleasure  in  proving  this  point  long  defended,  but  I 
bewailed  those  babies.  So  to  comfort  me  Bob  said  we  would 
search  beside  the  river  and  perhaps  we  could  find  them.  Neither 
of  us  had  much  hope,  but  there  were  so  many  other  things  to  find 
we  were  sure  not  to  waste  time, so  we  started.  We  did  find  things, 

331 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

for  all  nature  was  very  busy  that  morning.  We  took  a  rare 
butterfly,  located  a  Cuckoo  nest,  a  Woodpecker  tree,  a  Song 
Sparrow's  bush,  and  found  a  fine  specimen  of  cardinal  flower, 
which  is  not  common  in  this  locality. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  carriage,  from  under  our  very  feet 
Mother  Quail  arose  with  a  whirr,  while  there  was  a  breath  of  faint 
peeps.  We  were  in  the  midst  of  the  seventeen  youngsters.  I 
dropped  to  my  knees  and  began  combing  the  grass  with  my 
fingers.  The  first  sweep  brought  up  a  tiny  ball  of  fluff  with  a 
black  striped  back,  the  second  another.  By  that  time  Bob 
had  one,  then  I  had  another;  my  hands  were  full  of  Quail  now 
and  no  place  to  put  them.  Bob  came  with  a  second  chick  so 
what  to  do  with  them  was  a  serious  problem,  for  their  little  legs 
flew. 

Then  Bob  sighted  another  baby  and  in  desperation  stuffed  the 
two  he  held  into  the  front  of  his  flannel  shirt.  I  handed  over  mine 
and  in  they  went  also.  Then  We  hunted  Quail  by  hand.  The 
sun  was  hot  and  it  was  warm  work,  but  we  had  eight  before  we 
quit ;  that  was  all  we  felt  we  could  manage  at  once.  What  to  do 
with  them  became  the  next  question. 

The  grass  was  high,  so  there  was  no  chance  where  we  were. 
I  suggested  taking  them  back  to  the  nest.  But  that  was  in  high 
grass  also.  Bob  had  a  better  plan.  He  knew  where  there  had 
been  a  Quail-nest  in  an  adjoining  wheat  field,  beside  a  big  stone. 
We  could  have  a  better  opportunity  there,  and  one  egg  remained 
in  the  nest.  Also  it  was  close  the  carriage  and  would  save  moving 
the  cameras  far,  so  I  welcomed  the  suggestion. 

I  set  up  the  camera,  focussed  on  the  nest,  bent  back  the  wheat, 
left  the  unhatched  egg  as  it  lay,  and  announced  I  was  ready.  Bob 
produced  the  Quail.  I  held  them  until  he  found  all  of  them  and 
then  we  placed  them  in  the  nest.  Over  the  stone  and  into  the 
wheat  they  darted  like  weasels.  Two  were  lost  completely  be- 

332 


THE  QUAIL 

fore  we  knew  it.  Again  and  again  we  tried,  but  there  was  not 
the  slightest  chance  to  make  an  exposure,  for  our  hands  would  have 
been  the  whole  picture.  At  last  we  were  worn  out  completely. 
We  had  only  three  of  our  birds  left.  We  carefully  put  them 
down  in  the  nest,  Bob  on  one  side,  I  on  the  other;  he  holding 
the  babies,  I  ready  to  squeeze  the  bulb  or  stop  a  young  one  if  it 
ran  my  way. 

"Now  let  me  try,"  I  said. 

Bob  lifted  his  hands.  Over  the  stone  toward  the  wheat 
raced  the  birds.  I  knew  that  all  of  them  were  on  the  stone 
when  I  snapped.  Development  of  the  plate  proved  that  Bob 
had  thrust  out  his  hand  to  stop  them,  so  I  had  taken  it  also, 
although  the  motion  was  so  quick  that  neither  of  us  knew  it.  We 
both  were  worn  out  and  made  no  attempt  to  try  again.  I  was 
accustomed  to  being  warm,  tired,  wet  and  muddy,  but  a  vague 
unusual  discomfort  was  stealing  over  me  as  I  slipped  the  slide 
in  the  holder  and  packed  the  camera.  What  ailed  me!  I 
actually  was  in  distress.  I  glanced  at  Bob.  His  face  and  arms 
were  like  red  flannel.  Was  he  suffering,  too?  He  did  not 
seem  happy.  I  had  a  right  to  sacrifice  myself  for  my  work  if 
I  chose,  but  I  had  no  right  to  punish  Bob.  I  studied  him 
closer. 

A  million  tiny  red  lice  were  swarming  up  his  neck  and  over 
his  face  and  arms.  Only  a  quarter  of  a  million  fell  to  my  share 
but  they  drove  me  frantic.  I  climbed  into  the  carriage  and 
almost  killed  Patience  racing  to  the  Cabin.  Glancing  back  I  saw 
Bob  come  from  the  power-house  with  a  bundle  and  run  faster 
than  the  pointer  toward  the  river.  I  stopped  in  passing  that 
afternoon  to  see  if  he  were  alive,  to  find  him  smoking  his  pipe  in  a 
hammock  on  the  river-bank.  He  said  in  fifteen  minutes  after  I 
left,  the  old  Quail  were  busy  whistling  and  calling  until  they  col- 
lected their  entire  brood. 

333 


FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS 

I  was  sorry  to  have  missed  that.  I  think  a  Quail  call,  the 
Boh  White  whistle,  beautiful.  It  is  mellow,  musical,  inflected 
to  a  nicety,  and  it  is  always  so  cheerful  and  happy.  I  like  Quail 
love-making,  too;  those  soft,  tender  faint  wisps  of  sound,  those 
cheeps  and  peeps  and  gently-murmured  things.  In  fact,  the 
only  note  a  Quail  makes  which  I  do  not  like  is  his  alarm-cry,  and 
I  dislike  to  hear  that  from  any  bird. 

I  am  sorry  our  legislators  do  not  put  Quail  among  song  birds. 
Their  plumage  is  much  handsomer  than  some  of  our  choicest 
singers;  they  are  graceful  and  elegant  on  foot,  while  their  music 
every  one  knows  and  loves.  Only  a  note  shorter  and  only  a 
degree  less  melodious  than  the  Lark,  which  is  of  finer  flavour  as 
food ;  yet  the  soul  sickens  at  the  thought  of  such  sacrilege  in  the 
case  of  the  Lark — why  not  the  Quail  also?* 

I  love  these  two  birds  which  I  always  think  of  together. 
They  use  the  breast  of  earth  in  common  in  the  business  of  living. 
The  notes  of  their  songs  are  syllabicated  the  clearest  and  enun- 
ciated the  purest  of  any  of  our  singers.  But  the  Lark  is  the  bird 
of  Heaven,  the  Quail  is  of  the  very  earth.  Soaring  on  wing 
the  Lark  seems  to  catch  the  breath  of  divine  inspiration  in  his 
note  that  enthralls  and  uplifts  the  spirit.  Keeping  close  to  the 
dark  earth,  the  Quail  draws  from  it  strength  and  courage,  which 
so  tincture  his  tones  as  to  renew  hope  and  cheer  in  our  tired 
hearts  and  set  them  singing  with  him. 

"Bob,  Bob  White!  Bob,  Bob  White!"  How  beautifully  it 
pipes  up  from  meadow-grass  and  clover!  How  it  softens  and 
quivers  with  the  passion  of  mating!  How  it  swells  and  rings 
when  flung  as  a  challenge  to  a  rival  from  stumps  and  fences! 
How  it  comes  sweeping  in  certain,  steady  tones  on  the  breast  of 
the  river !  What  would  summer  be  to  lovers  of  field  and  stream 
without  it?  How  little  children  everywhere  love  and  try  to 

*The  Ohio  Legislature  of  1917  has  just  placed  Quail  among  song  birds. 

334 


THE  QUAIL 

imitate  it !  Sip  nectar  of  fruit  and  honey  of  flower  that  you  may 
trill  even  sweeter,  O  ye  favourites  of  protecting  fortune,  or  soon 
this  plucky  little  gamester  of  the  fields  will  win  enough  hearts 
with  his  cheery  whistle  to  place  himself  among  you ! 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER. 

Limberlost  Cabin,  March  17,  1906. 

Revised,  1917. 


Proof   that  Mother  Quail  cuts  the   shells  of  her  egg.* 
her  young  at  one  time 


halves   and    releases  all 


33.5 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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FEB  09  1993 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LIBRARY, 
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